Down to the Woods: DI Helen Grace 8 (Detective Inspector Helen Grace)

by M. J. Arlidge

  The team turned to face Charlie once more.

  ‘We’re going to continue to run the rule over Matteo Dominici and Melanie Walton – past relationships, internet history, any brushes with crime or criminality – but we’re also going to keep up the heat on Lauren Scott. If there is a tangible connection to the perpetrator, we still feel she is the most likely access point, given her history. Her parents live in South Africa – I’m due to talk to her father shortly – but we need to target others who might have known her during her late teens or early twenties. Someone who might have sold her, or got her hooked on, drugs, might have targeted her as somebody weak and vulnerable. We’ll also be looking at her numerous spates of rehab – and the people she met there – to see if there are any links there to criminality.’

  ‘Have we interrogated her phone contacts, her digital connections?’ Helen asked.

  ‘We’ve got one possible lead there – a phone number that appears in both Campbell and Scott’s call history – but we don’t know what it signifies yet. We’re talking to the phone companies, trying to identify the caller.’

  ‘Impress on them the urgency of the situation,’ Helen urged, before turning to DC Edwards. ‘What about other weapons enthusiasts, particularly those interested in archery, historical weapons and so on?’

  ‘There is one guy who might be interesting,’ Edwards volunteered. ‘Andrew Tucker. He’s been a member of the Weston Archery club on Lever Street for many years now.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, he’s a bit of a loner, recently divorced, and four weeks ago he had an altercation with another member. Things got out of hand and he pinned the other guy down, held an arrow to his throat. He was kicked out and nobody’s seen him since. I’ve rung him several times, been round his house, but no joy. There’s nothing definitive linking him to these crimes but …’

  ‘Keep on it. What about the hotline?’ Helen continued, turning to DC Lucas. ‘Have we had anything interesting from the public?’

  ‘The phones have been ringing non-stop, well, since the crime scene pictures were leaked anyway … Nothing useful though. Just attention seekers or dog walkers who think they see homicidal maniacs every time a twig snaps …’

  Helen didn’t react, but privately cursed Emilia Garanita once more. Her sensational headlines and underhand tactics never helped their investigations, succeeding only in creating paranoia and panic. Superintendent Simmons was hauling her over the coals right now, though Helen feared it would have little effect on the journalist’s behaviour.

  ‘Stay on it. Anything comes up, I want to know about it. That goes for all of you,’ Helen continued, turning to the rest of the team once more. ‘Whatever else you’ve got on, drop it. This is your sole priority now.’

  She paused briefly, before concluding firmly: ‘We need to bring this guy in.’

  74

  He came at her without warning, ambushing her as she neared her car.

  Having survived her dressing-down, Emilia was keen to get back to the office. The leaked pictures were creating a storm on the internet and she wanted to take advantage of this – she had already talked Gardiner into running a specially extended edition of the paper, offering their readers the definitive guide to the New Forest Killer.

  But as she reached her distinctive red Corsa, she felt a shadow fall upon her, then a hand dragging her back, spinning her around. Though startled, she was not surprised to find Graham Ross ranged against her.

  ‘Look what the cat dragged in.’

  His tone was even, but there was a coiled aggression underneath.

  ‘Please don’t tell me you’ve been working on that line, Graham. Because it’s lame, even by your standards …’

  ‘Simmons charge you?’ he continued, ignoring the insult.

  ‘Not at all. In fact, we had a nice girly chat,’ Emilia drawled happily.

  ‘Bullshit. She was incandescent when I was in with her. I only just managed to stop her cancelling my contract. But, then again, I’m the innocent party in all this.’

  ‘And I’m the big bad wolf?’

  To her surprise, Ross laughed, as if genuinely amused by the description.

  ‘Something like that. Anyway, this is just a friendly chat to let you know how disappointed I am in you. I didn’t have you down as a thief.’

  ‘I’ve been called worse.’

  ‘Still … I will say this for you. You’ve got a good eye for a photo. The selection you picked were … well chosen. The best of the bunch in fact. So, I suppose I should be grateful. They’ve created quite a stir, haven’t they?’

  Emilia was about to respond with a few well-chosen words, but Ross had clearly said his piece, turning now to walk back to his car. Emilia followed his progress, confused and intrigued by the strange, abrupt conclusion to their conversation. There was something knowing in Ross’s tone, even a hint of smugness. Which made her wonder.

  It was extremely naïve of a seasoned professional to leave his camera unattended like that. Also, his unexpected conversation with the barmaid had conveniently bought Emilia enough time to steal the precious images ‘undetected’. Finally, despite his professed anger towards her, he seemed oddly relaxed today, even satisfied, at the way things had worked out.

  Was it possible, then, that he knew exactly what he was doing from the off? That he had wanted her to steal the images, knowing they would be leaked without a stain on his reputation?

  Was it possible that she was the dupe, not him?

  75

  From her seventh-floor window, Grace Simmons watched Emilia Garanita climb into her car. Their interview had gone as planned, but had done little to settle her nerves. And the subsequent conversation between Ross and Garanita worried her further. Was this meeting prearranged? Was it possible they were in this together?

  If so, it could only spell trouble. The leaking of the photos had created panic in the city and a firestorm within the building. The Chief Constable had called her first thing this morning, the Mayor shortly afterwards, both of them pointing out that the leaking of such graphic images was unprecedented and risked public order. Simmons couldn’t disagree, so had had to take the verbal beating, promising to run those responsible to ground. She felt she had already done this, in fact, but was powerless to do anything about it – the laws of the land struggling to keep up with the realities of an ever-changing world.

  Garanita’s car sped off down the street, the driver blatantly ignoring the 20 mph speed limit. Simmons pictured the occupant, smiling to herself at having got away unscathed, following yet another misdemeanour. Emilia Garanita was the type whom Simmons had always disliked – parasitic, without conscience, a free-market trader in other people’s misery. Never mind that she herself had been the victim of violent crime on a number of occasions – these experiences had seemingly numbed the young journalist to other people’s pain, rather than exciting her sympathies. But there was more to Simmons’s anger and animosity than a simple dislike of the devious journalist. Helen Grace, her protégée, had come in for sustained criticism in the last few days. In spite of her incredible track record, the powers that be, not to mention the wider world, had questioned her competency, her ability to bring the case to a successful conclusion. Garanita’s irresponsible actions had only fanned the flames licking at Helen’s heels.

  It was totally unjustified, of course, which only increased Simmons’s ire. Emilia claimed to be engaged in public service journalism, but Simmons was sure she was just using this case as a stick with which to beat Helen, the two having never seen eye to eye. Instinctively, Simmons wanted to intervene, even though she knew that the experienced officer was capable of taking care of herself. Simmons had found that out a long time ago.

  Yet the truth was she did want to protect her, to bat away the slingshots now aimed at her. It wasn’t necessary, nor was it professional, Simmons letting her personal feelings for Helen cloud her judgement. Sometimes she tried to justify this to herself – one couldn’t ig
nore their personal history, pretend they weren’t friends – but most of the time she chided herself for her weakness. Perhaps, after all, it said more about her than it did about Helen.

  Her husband, Ralph, had died three years ago. She had managed to get through that – his death was a release in the end – and while the boys were still at home she’d had people round her to provide support and company. But now that they’d moved out, she did feel a little at sea, rattling around in a family home that was too big for her. She had on occasion flirted with the idea of selling up, but had always backed off from this, confirming as it would the end of one stage of her life and the beginning of another.

  No doubt about it, she was becoming sentimental in her old age, perhaps even a little indulgent. She’d never had favourites before, had always been scrupulously fair, but something about Helen’s past experiences, and her own situation, made her want to save her from those who would bring her down.

  Rightly or wrongly, she would continue to keep a close eye on her protégée.

  76

  He sped down the road, his eyes glued to his rear-view mirror.

  Wherever he went today, he felt watched. While he was at work, his father’s gaze seldom left him. He had endured it at first, then began to challenge him, looking up sharply to catch him in the act. But this scarcely seemed to register – his father would look away briefly, before quietly resuming his surveillance.

  Eventually, Dean could bear it no longer and he’d headed to Greggs for an early lunch. But even here he felt as if people were reacting to his presence, regarding him with curiosity. He was being paranoid of course, there was no way they could know, yet he felt as if they were looking at him strangely. Moreover, he was convinced that on a couple of occasions he’d seen the same face behind him – a young woman he’d noticed earlier on his way into work. But surely that was impossible. His mind must be playing tricks on him.

  Having endured the heavy atmosphere at work, during an afternoon which seemed to crawl by Dean eventually made a break for it, rushing to finish a botched job on the fridge, before heading off. He would have to do it all over again in the morning, but he didn’t care, he had more important things to worry about.

  Without a word to his father, he had roared off in the Defender. Even as he sped away from the yard, he half expected his father to loom into view in his rear-view mirror, dogging his progress in his old pick-up. But there was no sign of him – perhaps his curiosity was just that, the inevitable consequence of the recent police visit.

  Of course, it was this that lay at the root of his paranoia. His father’s suspicions he could handle. There was no way he would ever turn his son in. The influence of his mother, the oaths she’d made her husband swear on her deathbed, would see to that. But what were the police up to? And what did they know? The fact that they had shown an interest in the Defender made him nervous. Had it been spotted? Had they somehow traced it? Shooting another look in the rear-view mirror, he made a mental note to spend some time Googling new vehicles tomorrow. If it had aroused their suspicions, it would have to go.

  The cars idling behind him in the city centre traffic seemed unremarkable – he didn’t recognize any of them from earlier – so he returned his attention to the road ahead. Progress was slow, making him jumpy. Now he just wanted to get back to base, to prepare. It was possible his father might return home early, suspicion driving him there, and he was determined to avoid a scene. There was no time for that tonight.

  Spotting a gap in the traffic, he gunned the Defender forward, darting down a quick cut-through. A few more manoeuvres and the way now opened up for him – ten minutes later he was back outside their ramshackle home. Avoiding the main street, he parked up in the alleyway behind, before creeping round to the front of the house. Emerging onto the street, he scanned left and right, searching for his father, an unfamiliar face, anything out of the ordinary. But the street was quiet, as lifeless and suburban as usual.

  Shaking off his paranoia, he hurried up the steps, slipping his key into the lock and hurrying inside. The door slammed firmly shut behind him, the key turning in the lock. Then all was quiet once more … save for the arrival of an unremarkable Ford Focus, coming to a gentle stop a few doors down from the Clarke residence. The young female driver appeared to be lost, pulling a road map from the arm of the door and leafing through it.

  Yet oddly, despite her predicament, she seemed little interested in the map, her eyes never leaving the house across the road.

  77

  She didn’t want to look, but somehow she couldn’t help herself.

  Following the team briefing, Helen had retreated to her office to dig deeper into Dean Clarke. McAndrew had gone out on surveillance, Charlie was chasing down leads on Lauren Scott and the rest of the team were hard at work, allowing Helen a moment to get the measure of their suspect. Joseph Hudson had joined her – he seemed best equipped to navigate Clarke’s dark world – and what he was showing her beggared belief.

  Clarke was extremely isolated. He had a complex relationship with his father and few other outlets – no colleagues, no friends, no partner. His connection with the world seemed entirely virtual – posing as a variety of avatars, he engaged with other faceless posters, sharing disturbing images and bitter thoughts. Helen had seen others sucked into this sinister netherworld and she wondered how far gone he was. Was there anything restraining him now?

  Not from the evidence in front of her. Hudson had taken her to the darkest corners of the web, penetrating special-interest groups who traded in sadism and brutality. The frequency of their posts, and the explicitness of the content, was breath-taking. If you could imagine a form of depravity, these guys could serve it up.

  ‘These clips were mostly shot in Iraq,’ Hudson was saying, as he pulled up another grainy scene of brutality. ‘They’re a specialist sub-genre – military-themed torture porn.’

  ‘Nice …’

  ‘The footage is pretty gruesome, but the guys seem to enjoy it …’

  Helen’s gaze was glued to the hand-held footage on the screen. A young Iraqi combatant was slumped against a chair, his arms secured with cable ties. The prisoner appeared to be unconscious, but this didn’t concern his three captors, who were taking it in turns to beat him with a bicycle chain. Grimly, the whole scene seemed to have a relaxed, even jovial air, the three Army officers posing for the camera as they cracked jokes.

  It was beyond repugnant, inexcusable, but perhaps was a consequence of the terror, paranoia and bloodlust that warfare generated. What was less explicable was the delight ordinary people seemed to take in these scenes, people who had never seen a battlefield, never experienced real fear or pain. The clip was framed by numerous comments from around the world, underlining the viewers’ enthusiasm for both the imagery and the content. ‘Another one bites the dust’ seemed to be a popular refrain, many posters wishing they could have been present to join in. ‘Helmanned2008’ clearly felt this, outlining in explicit detail what he would have done to the helpless captive. To which many of his online associates had simply responded: ‘Lol’.

  ‘It’s like they’re commenting on Love Island …’ Helen murmured angrily.

  ‘Something for everyone on the net,’ Hudson replied dryly. ‘I can show you worse if you like.’

  ‘I’ll pass. Do we know who these other posters are?’

  She turned to Hudson to find he was looking directly at her. They were huddled close to each other, hunched over her laptop, but he seemed unembarrassed to have been caught out, calmly replying:

  ‘It’s too soon. They are all aliases, with no obvious signifiers. We’re cross-referencing the names with other investigations – if that doesn’t throw anything up, we’ll have to work out where and when they posted, see if we can get a workable IP address for any of them.’

  Helen looked back at the footage, pausing it just as one of the captor’s attackers was poised to strike again. The young man’s face was already a bloody mess and He
len had no desire to witness any more.

  ‘Has he ever arranged to meet with any of them? Are any of them local?’

  ‘Once,’ Hudson replied, angling the keyboard towards him and typing some more. ‘But we don’t think it ever happened. Clarke made the offer but his correspondent never replied.’

  Helen digested the dialogue. Clarke had spotted a reference to the south coast in a post by Bushwhacker99 and had probed further, but without success, his online ‘friend’ apparently running scared of real-world contact.

  Frustrated, Helen turned to Hudson again, only to find him appraising her once more.

  ‘DS Hudson, I appreciate your enthusiasm and attention to detail … but I have to ask – do you make a habit of staring at your superiors?’

  ‘Only when there’s something worth staring at,’ he replied happily, not breaking her gaze.

  ‘Well, let me give you a piece of advice,’ Helen replied quickly, concealing her surprise. ‘The way to get ahead here is to see what others miss, to fashion new leads. So, keep your eyes on the prize, Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘Absolutely, ma’am,’ he replied, the ghost of a smile drifting across his face, as his gaze turned back to the screen.

  They resumed their exploration of Clarke’s online activities, descending ever deeper into the sewer, but Helen found it hard to concentrate. She had intended to shame Hudson for his blatant interest in her, but he had been utterly unembarrassed, happily acknowledging his attraction. This was both irritating and oddly impressive – most men would have quailed under the force of Helen’s disapproval. But he had met her gaze, refusing to be intimidated, while nevertheless maintaining a respectful distance. It was as if he was offering up an invitation, without once overplaying his hand. It was artfully done, which made Helen suspicious, but also pleased her. He was an attractive guy – fit, athletic, handsome – and she was flattered and surprised that he should be interested in her, given the difference in their ages. There was no way anything would come of it, of course, that would be grossly unprofessional and ill-advised. And yet, for a brief moment, Helen enjoyed the warm glow of his interest – it was seldom anyone plucked up courage to approach her.