Down to the Woods

by M. J. Arlidge

  He was out there right now, lurking in the forest, ready and primed to strike again.

  38

  He remained stock-still, his body rigid with tension. His pursuers were close, so close they could almost reach out and touch him.

  He cursed himself for his stupidity. He had been enjoying himself so much with Brooks that he had been blind to the danger he was in. She hadn’t been bluffing about her fellow officers, half a dozen of them crashing into his clearing moments later. Fortunately, his reactions were still quick and their caution had bought him time to make his escape.

  Taking advantage of his head start, he had darted down tracks that only he knew, changing direction frequently to throw off his pursuers. But he had no idea how many there were, nor whether he risked running into a second wave of officers. So, at the first suitable opportunity, he had ended his headlong charge through the bushes. He had lived in these woods long enough to have identified numerous hiding places, logging them for the day he would need them. He was glad of his foresight now, climbing inside the husk of a rotten tree that had fallen long ago and been colonized by other forest plants. Snuggling low into the hole, he pulled the surrounding foliage close around him. And then he waited.

  At first, nobody came. For a brief while, he dared to believe that they had given up the chase. But then he’d heard noises. Hushed voices, tramping footsteps, the crackling of radio handsets. And then slowly they’d loomed into view – a group of officers, four, maybe five in number, moving steadily forward.

  Their gaze scoured the wood, raking the ground, sweeping the bushes, even darting up to the forest canopy. They looked tense, as if fearing an attack. Part of him would have loved to oblige, but the odds were not in his favour and he had been on the wrong end of police brutality before. So he remained where he was, watching and waiting.

  The group were only a foot from his hiding place. Had they turned, investigated the foliage, they would surely have found him. But they remained locked in earnest conversation, debating what to do next. One of them now broke away, pivoting in his direction. Gently, Martin closed his eyes. He was dressed in greens and browns, colours culled from the forest, and he was perfectly camouflaged for his surroundings. But the whites of his eyes could still give him away, so he kept them clamped shut. He could hear his own breathing, could hear his heartbeat – both seemed monstrously amplified. But he held his nerve, held his breath and was now rewarded with the sound of footsteps moving away.

  Still he kept his eyes closed, imagining himself dissolving into the fabric of the forest itself. As he did so, he felt a surge of power, of confidence. His pursuers had no affinity with the forest, nor any idea of how to harness it. He did and he would use that to his advantage, blending in seamlessly with his surroundings.

  The forest had been his home for a long time. Now it would be his saviour.

  39

  Meredith Walker shivered as she looked around her. She had attended many unusual scenes in the course of her career, but nothing like this. The angry sky was still spitting at them, the water dripping heavily off the sodden leaves, and the temperature had dropped markedly as night fell. She realized now that she’d dressed too lightly for this assignment, her forensic suit keeping out the rain but not the creeping chill.

  The sun had dipped below the horizon, so they’d had to set up arc lights to illuminate the clearing. The powerful beams threw crazy shadows everywhere – the forest that usually looked so beautiful appeared sinister and menacing tonight. The steady drip, drip, drip of the rainwater, the scurrying in the brush, the occasional hoot of a wood owl all served to underline Meredith’s sense of isolation. There were other officers present, but Meredith felt very small tonight, as if she were surrounded on all sides by something powerful and malign.

  ‘How you getting on?’

  Though she would not normally chivvy a fellow professional, Graham Ross was being unusually slow tonight. He liked to do a thorough job, reminding anyone who’d listen that the devil was in the detail, but to her mind he was lingering unnecessarily, shooting frame after frame of the unfortunate animal.

  ‘Just a couple more,’ he replied, without looking up, moving around the horse to find a better angle.

  Suppressing a sigh, Meredith watched him finish. Eventually, he turned to her, a broad grin on his face, as he tucked away his camera.

  ‘All yours.’

  She was glad someone could remain upbeat. She, by contrast, went to her task with a heavy heart. This was not normally her area, but they had no veterinarian on the payroll, so it fell to her to recover the evidence herself. Sliding on latex gloves, she knelt down by the horse. The ground had softened considerably in the last few hours and her knees sank into it, sucked downwards by the greedy mud. She had no worries about disturbing the scene – her initial sweep had revealed no obvious footwear marks, not surprising given that the pony must have been killed several days ago when the weather was warm and the ground hard. Nor had she found any fabric strips, discarded items or obvious excretions, so the most interesting clues no doubt lay within – the three crossbow bolts sticking out of the deceased horse’s right flank.

  It defied belief that someone could do something like this. Meredith had always had a soft spot for animals, had ridden a lot when she was a kid. What kind of person could stand over a prone horse and unleash an additional couple of bolts? The animal would have been in great distress – bemused and in pain – but it had been shown no mercy. What sort of kick did someone get from this? From deliberately butchering such a sweet, beautiful creature?

  Swallowing her repugnance, Meredith slid her fingers into the wound. The bloody fissure sighed quietly and she teased it open, delving inside. Her fingertips followed the length of the shaft, until she found the head. It was barbed, as she’d expected it would be, and she had to use all her strength to loosen it. The pony was in full rigor mortis now, the frozen flesh gripping the vicious bolts. Patiently, methodically, Meredith worked away, taking care not to cut herself on the sharp ridges. Eventually, she gained enough leverage, easing the bolt from the wound and dropping it into an evidence bag. Pausing, she straightened up, stepping away from the body to hold the bolt up to the light.

  It was made of iron, with a rough, uneven surface. Though it was hard to tell with the blood still on it, the bolt appeared to be homemade, smelted together from different sources perhaps, given the ridges and bumps on the shaft and head. Furthermore, the shape of the bolt was familiar to Meredith. A sharp, thin bolt head, then a curving barb on either side, uneven in length and shape to each other. It reinforced her feeling that this was not the creation of a factory worker. They would have to do more tests at the lab, but there was no doubt in Meredith’s mind that this bolt was a match to the ones used on Tom Campbell two days ago.

  Shivering, Meredith looked around her. It seemed improbable, but it was true. Something evil was stalking the forest. Someone cruel and pitiless. Someone who was still at large. Casting a wary look at the darkened forest, Meredith returned to her work, anxious to conclude her investigations.

  Suddenly she was keen to be anywhere but here.

  40

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘It’s my own stupid fault,’ Charlie lied quickly. ‘We were pursuing a suspect and I got my foot caught in a rabbit hole.’

  ‘A rabbit hole did that?’

  Steve gestured to the dressing which swathed Charlie’s lower leg. She had just returned from South Hants hospital and, though she had been given the all-clear, her heavily bandaged leg was quite a sight. She was resting on the bed, Steve looming above her.

  ‘You can barely walk on it.’

  ‘It’s just a bad sprain. And a major source of embarrassment,’ Charlie replied gamely, adding her best attempt at a smile, as she shifted her position.

  ‘Who was this guy you were chasing?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Was he dangerous?’

  ‘Potentially, but I had peop
le with me, so it wasn’t an issue.’

  Charlie hated lying to Steve, but she knew he would go crazy if he knew the seriousness of the situation she had found herself in. Had Martin really planned to harm her, kill her even? Or was he just toying with her? Charlie didn’t know and, in all honesty, didn’t want to think about it. Despite the hour or two spent decompressing in A&E, she still felt badly shaken by the experience, constantly replaying Martin’s threats in her mind. The image of his contorted face was hard to shake.

  ‘So, what now? Are you going to take time off?’

  ‘I’ll see how I feel in the morning.’

  From his reaction, Steve could tell he was being fobbed off, that Charlie would find a way to make it in to work. He was about to respond when the conversation was cut short by the appearance of Jessica, clutching a pair of soft toys.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing up?’ Charlie chided gently.

  ‘I brought you brown bear and teddy,’ Jessica replied, matter-of-factly. ‘To help you sleep.’

  Charlie felt a sudden rush of emotion. She had downplayed her injury to both Steve and Jessica, painting herself as victim of her own foolishness, but in their different ways they had both been alarmed by her appearance as she hobbled through the front door, swallowing down the pain. The truth was that, despite the powerful painkillers she’d been given, her leg still hurt like hell, throbbing angrily beneath the dressing.

  ‘That’s very sweet of you, honey.’

  Smiling, Jessica handed her the bears, then pulled back the duvet.

  ‘Hey, what’s this?’

  ‘I want to sleep with you tonight.’

  ‘You’ve got your own bed.’

  ‘But I want to …’

  Charlie hesitated, angling a look at Steve, who shrugged, batting the decision back to her. Jessica had to sleep in her bed – that was the rule. To relent now, giving in to the tyranny of the night terrors, would be a major mistake. One which might take days, even weeks to undo. But Charlie couldn’t face another night of screaming, not after everything that had happened today.

  ‘Just this once then,’ Charlie relented, allowing the four-year-old to snuggle up next to her.

  She knew she was being weak and that she would regret it – three to a bed was seldom restful. But tonight she was willing to make an exception.

  Tonight, she wanted to hold her child close.

  41

  His eyes never left her as she slid across the room. Helen paused briefly to talk to Ellie McAndrew, then turned to the team.

  ‘Thank you, everyone, for your work today. It was much appreciated by myself and, of course, DS Brooks. She should be back with us tomorrow, fit and well, and we’ll go again. Thank you.’

  Hudson had dropped his gaze, keen not to be caught watching her. But now, as she hurried towards her office, he raised his eyes once more, watching her slender form recede, until she eventually disappeared from view.

  ‘The rest of you can head off now,’ he said, as her office door closed. ‘I can handle anything that comes up.’

  The assembled officers muttered their thanks and began gathering their things. Joseph Hudson wanted to appear generous – he was aware how tired, damp and cold everyone was – but he was also keen to underline the fact that he was in charge when Helen and Charlie were otherwise engaged. Experience had taught him that it was important for him as a new DS to assert himself, gently, but quickly, to let people know that he would not be manipulated or overlooked simply because he was new. It was one of the reasons he’d stayed so late the past few nights – there was no question of him being a weak link.

  But there was another reason for his diligence. As the team departed, Hudson returned his attention to his computer. During the working day, there was no time for personal research, partly because of workload and partly because of the risk of detection. After hours, however, it was a different matter. Maximizing his window, he looked at the search results. A long list of operations, all of them with the same SIO. It amazed him that Helen Grace had tackled so many complex operations, but the sober reports confirmed it, underlining the heroism, selflessness and dedication she’d exhibited in bringing them to a successful conclusion.

  The lengthy reports on the investigation into the deaths of Jake Elder, Max Paine and Amy Fawcett were particularly interesting, not just for what they revealed of Helen’s private life, but because they illuminated the complexity of her relationship with her sole remaining relative – Robert Stonehill, who now languished in Winchester Prison. Did his hatred burn as strongly as ever? Had she ever found it in her heart to forgive him? Were the pair in contact? Questions, questions, questions …

  Police reports are written in dry, official prose and, during his late-night sessions, Hudson had often abandoned the police database in favour of Google. The stories he found there were much more sensational and entertaining – ‘The DI and the Dominator’, ‘Detective’s Prison Hell’, ‘Twenty-Four Hours of Carnage in Southampton’ – but in truth he knew the details by heart. He had made a point of preparing diligently for his interview with Helen, in case she tackled him head on about her past cases, to see if she could intimidate or embarrass him, or in case it became clear during the interview that there were areas she expressly wanted to avoid. In the end, the preparation had proved worthwhile – the interview had gone smoothly and he had got the job he craved – but it meant his searches now felt repetitive.

  He continued to sift, trying every variation of her name, both real and adopted, as well as putting together key words relating to her personal and professional history. But each time he hit a brick wall, finding himself directed to articles he’d read a dozen times. There were other sources of information that could have proved fruitful, but they were close allies of Helen – DS Brooks and, according to rumour, Chief Superintendent Simmons – and hardly likely to open up to him. Meaning all he could do was sift and hope, going around and around in ever decreasing circles.

  It was time to leave, he knew that, but still Joseph Hudson remained seated. Failure was something new to him, arousing complex emotions. His hunt was persistent, dogged, but his quarry remained elusive. If the infamous detective inspector genuinely wanted to remain an enigma, she was making a good fist of it, no question about that. She had no control over what others wrote about her, of course, but she jealously guarded her own privacy. She had no dependants, no interests, no causes she favoured, no events she regularly attended. No Facebook status, no Twitter handle, even her mobile phone seemed to be unregistered – a breach of police rules which the powers that be seemed happy to overlook. He had never seen anything like it before. She had no personal footprint at all, online or in life, her office containing only work files and official commendations. This frustrated him, intrigued him and, if he was honest, excited him a little too.

  42

  Helen remained in her office, the door shut and the blinds down.

  Normally, she left her door open, to encourage the free flow of information, but tonight she needed to think. This poky office was her sanctuary, a place to retreat to when she needed some calm amid the storm. Often Charlie joined her to sift the leads and review their progress, but she was at home, having been signed off by the hospital doctors. Nasty bruising, perhaps a slight sprain, but nothing that would keep her from returning to work. Helen was glad of it – she had the unnerving feeling that the investigation was drifting badly off course. She would need her friend’s insight and assistance in the days ahead.

  A pack of Marlboro Gold lay half hidden by a casefile on her desk. Helen was tempted to grab it and head for the yard. But she was trying to cut down and was determined not to crown a disastrous day by giving in to temptation. Charlie would be fine, which was a blessing, but other than that things couldn’t have gone much worse. True, they had discovered Martin’s bolt-hole – police dogs now had his scent and two units were currently sweeping the forest in search of him – but the man himself was still at large and Helen’s gut told her
he would be hard to track down. It was possible he had been living in the forest for nearly eighteen months, sighted fleetingly and then only when he wanted to be. He, more than anyone, would know how to vanish into the forest’s depths, to disguise his scent, to blend in with his surroundings. If he wanted to disappear for days, even weeks, what chance would they have of finding him?

  Rising, Helen strode around the room, angry and frustrated. They had come so close to catching Martin today, but he had slipped through their fingers. He would no doubt have proved to be an unpredictable and aggressive interviewee, but Helen would have loved to have him in front of her nevertheless. There were many questions for him to answer – about his past conduct, his reasons for disappearing into the forest and, of course, his capture of Charlie. Helen longed to know how he would have justified himself.

  There was no doubt about it, Nathaniel Martin was a good fit for Tom Campbell’s murder. He had targeted Woodland View before – Charlie had confirmed his strong reaction to her mention of the name – and was exhibiting behaviour that was unstable, violent, even deranged, fighting a one-man war against those who defiled Mother Nature. He was a man adept at living by his ingenuity, fashioning whatever he needed from things he found. It was true he favoured natural materials, but there were iron objects in his camp – cooking pots, utensils – and it was not beyond the realms of possibility that he could have smelted some of these down to manufacture a deadly weapon.

  And yet there were things that troubled Helen, things that argued against his guilt. According to Charlie, Martin had had the opportunity to confess his crimes, but had not, despite the fact that Charlie was completely at his mercy. Moreover, there was no concrete evidence that he possessed the murder weapon. He could have taken it with him, of course, and any additional bolts, but if he had been fashioning these armaments himself, wouldn’t you expect to find some tools, some remnant of their manufacture, on site? They could have been made elsewhere, obviously, but Martin was not itinerant – his camp would have taken a long time to construct and the jars of preserved fruit, the well-appointed ‘bathroom’ and comfortable bed all pointed to him having lived there for some time. So where was the evidence of his deadly craft?