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

by M. J. Arlidge

  Gathering himself, Hudson double-clicked his radio, the prearranged signal for signs of movement, then turned it off. Extending his baton, he readied himself. Clarke was nearing the bottom of the fire escape.

  Stepping down onto the spongy turf, the figure suddenly stopped dead, turning to look back up at the building. A light had come on on the second floor, spilling light onto the garden below. The intruder remained out of sight on the edge of the shadows, frozen in the act of fleeing. Hudson wondered what was going through his head – would he make a break for it or sit it out? – but the light was now extinguished, plunging the garden back into darkness.

  Now the figure was on the move again, padding swiftly across the garden. He didn’t seem to be carrying anything, was unencumbered, and Hudson wondered again what the purpose of this night-time visit was. Hopefully, they would soon find out – the retreating figure was only ten yards from him now.

  Hudson tensed. He was in the shadows, but would soon become visible, should Clarke choose to look his way. But their suspect seemed intent on getting away, hurrying past the bush without a glance. Hudson knew this was his moment, so he moved in for the kill, laying a firm hand on the figure’s shoulder.

  ‘Dean Clarke. I’m arresting you –’

  An elbow rammed into his ribs, knocking him backwards. But he had a fistful of Clarke’s clothing and he pulled hard, to stop Clarke escaping. Again, the elbow flew towards him, but this time Hudson dodged it, Clarke’s arm glancing off his flank. Now, however, his quarry twisted violently away from him, breaking his hold. Hudson saw his intention instantly – to vault the nearby garden wall – and slammed his baton into Clarke’s right knee. The fugitive howled in agony, stumbling slightly, and Hudson pounced, grabbing his free arm and wrenching it up his back. But even as he did so, Clarke pirouetted, spinning around sharply and freeing himself once more. Hudson raised his baton again, expecting Clarke to flee, but to his surprise Clarke turned and barrelled straight into him, the top of his head connecting sharply with Hudson’s chin.

  Stunned, he fell backwards, landing in a heap on the turf. For a moment he was poleaxed, a million pinpricks of light flashing in front of his eyes, and he was too slow to stop Clarke climbing on top of him. He jerked his body violently, trying to dislodge his assailant, even as a wave of nausea swept over him. But Clarke would not shift, manoeuvring his knees to try to pin him down. He swung his baton hard, catching Clarke on the side of his head. His attacker emitted a low moan, so he struck again. And again. Except this time, Clarke caught the baton, twisting it round and ramming it down onto Hudson’s throat.

  Hudson gasped, the rigid metal bar pressing down on his windpipe. Already winded, Hudson now struggled to breathe. Clarke was pressing down with all his might, as if he wanted to snap his head clean off.

  The nausea was growing, the pinpricks going crazy. Hudson continued to buck, but he was losing strength, suddenly robbed of energy and oxygen. He knew he had to get Clarke off him somehow, but his attacker was in the ascendant, bearing down on his victim, his eyes flashing with cruelty and desire. Was this the last thing he would ever see? Those manic, laughing eyes?

  Things were going black now. He was drifting further and further from reality, towards unconsciousness, towards the end. Then suddenly, the pressure lifted, all at once. His attacker flew sideways, crashing to the ground next to him. Oxygen seemed to flood Hudson’s lungs and he jerked back to the present, just in time to see Helen Grace hurdling him to engage Clarke. The latter was already on his feet, swinging a meaty fist in her direction, but Helen dodged it easily, catching his arm and using Clarke’s own momentum to swing him around, jamming a foot behind his right leg. Surprised, Clarke pitched onto the ground, biting the turf hard. And now Helen was on top of him, pinning back his arms, cuffing him.

  Hudson struggled up onto his elbows, but the fight was over. Half a second later, another wave of nausea swept over him, then everything went black.

  87

  He was walking in circles, going nowhere.

  Having watched his son depart from the yard, Terry Clarke had stuck it out for another half-hour before calling it a day. He was going through the motions, chasing up invoices, making calls, but his heart wasn’t in it.

  Locking up, he had driven home, his thoughts dominated by his son’s strange behaviour. What was going on? Where had this sudden aggression come from? He had never seen him so hostile before, had certainly never been attacked by him. Dean seemed like a coiled spring these days, primed to burst forth at any moment. Terry prayed he wouldn’t be around when he did.

  Pacing the floor of the living room, he shot another glance at the window. Where did he go at night? What was there to do in Southampton that could keep him out so late? He never smelt of drink, or perfume, in the morning, nor did he dress up – his one set of smart clothes hadn’t been touched in weeks. Nobody ever rang his mobile or contacted him at the yard, so who was he with? What was he doing?

  He realized now how little he knew his son. Things had definitely gone sideways since Nancy died. She was the glue that kept the family together and now Dean seemed to want to spend less and less time with his father. He worked hard enough during the day, but kept his distance, then vanished at night. It was as if the thought of spending any time in the family home was too much to bear. Yet something was driving him, consuming him. He seemed to spend every spare moment on his phone, though what he was up to Terry couldn’t say. Once he had tried to open up his phone, desperate to see what was so interesting, but it was password locked and he had thought better of it. There would be hell to pay if Dean worked out what he’d been up to.

  Terry Clarke ground to a halt. Try as he might, he couldn’t settle, couldn’t sit still. Part of him thought he should get out, go down the Hare and Hounds. This house, this room with its threadbare rug and stained sofa, was depressing him. And yet something, some instinct, was making him stay put, as if abandoning his home now would be to abandon the family.

  So, he resumed pacing, but movement outside now caught his attention. Immediately, he froze. He couldn’t make out the cars that were pulling up, but he could see their blue flashing lights. Hurrying to the window, he saw two patrol cars, flanked by more, unmarked vehicles. Even now, officers were emerging, hurrying towards the house, hammering on the front door.

  But Terry Clarke remained rooted to the spot, leaning on the window, staring at the lights. He suddenly knew with absolute certainty that the walls were about to come crashing down.

  88

  ‘What’s all this about? I really am in a hurry.’

  Nigella Ware was the definition of a modern working mum. Smartly dressed, she was weighed down with bags and files, labouring to manoeuvre a bulky pushchair out of the front door. She looked tired and harassed this morning, distracted by her toddler, who was banging a toy on the roof of his pram. Charlie knew how she felt – a hard night with Steve, full of argument, distress and anger had left her feeling raw and unsettled – but she had to ask the questions.

  ‘We’re making enquiries about Lauren Scott,’ Charlie replied, pocketing her warrant card. ‘You may have heard about her in the news.’

  Nigella’s reaction told Charlie that she had.

  ‘I’m trying to track down people who knew her at university. I believe you studied geography together?’

  ‘Well, we were on the same course,’ Nigella replied uncertainly. ‘But we weren’t particularly close.’

  That was good enough for Charlie. She’d only had a short list of names to start with – all of whom had so far proved to be out of town or unable to help.

  ‘We don’t need you to make a statement or anything,’ Charlie continued swiftly, aware that the volume of the toddler’s protests was growing. ‘I’m just trying to find out about her life around that time. I know she had some problems, that she dropped out early in her second year.’

  ‘Look, I really didn’t know her. I wasn’t part of her scene …’

  Charlie
assumed she meant drugs, but didn’t probe further. Ware was clearly keen to be away, but her conscience wouldn’t let her shrug Charlie off just yet.

  ‘… and she didn’t hang out with the people on our course. Best thing would be to track down her housemates. She lived in a shared house in Portswood, I think.’

  Ware had stopped now, the memories arresting her. Charlie’s hopes suddenly rose – any progress, however modest, would be very gratefully received.

  ‘Can you think of any names? Anyone she was close to?’

  ‘There were a few …’ she said vaguely. ‘People moved in and out a lot, but I think she was tightest with Aaron Slater and Julia Winter.’

  Charlie scribbled down the names.

  ‘Not that that’ll do you any good.’

  Charlie looked up, alarmed.

  ‘Aaron Slater shacked up with an American girl in his final year – he moved out there a while back. And Julia’s in a coma.’

  For a moment, Charlie was lost for words, so Nigella continued.

  ‘At least, I think she is. She flunked her first-year exams and tried to kill herself. She was on a ventilator at South Hants … but to be honest I’m not even sure she’s still alive. Now, if you don’t mind, I really do have to go.’

  Charlie let her leave – her little boy had started to wail in earnest now. Charlie knew how he felt. She always chased down new leads with optimism and determination, but this morning she was struggling to remain upbeat. Perhaps it was the legacy of her arguments with Steve, perhaps it was the opaque nature of this case, but her tangible lack of progress left her feeling flat and dispirited. Maybe she was overreacting, maybe fatigue was poisoning her mood, but her inability to fashion a clear link between Campbell and Scott, to find any real overlap, indicated to her that the university connection might prove to be a giant dead end.

  In a case that already seemed to have a pronounced lack of clues, she feared it would not be the last.

  89

  ‘You’re going to have to talk to me at some point, Dean. So drop the act and answer the question.’

  Dean Clarke stared at Helen, but said nothing. After a night in the cells, he had been passed fit for interview by a local doctor, who’d confirmed that his injuries were superficial. Fortunately, so were Joseph Hudson’s, but Helen had still given him the morning off to recuperate. And, as Charlie was pursuing another line of enquiry and facing her own issues at home, Helen had pulled in DC McAndrew to join her. So far, however, Clarke had refused to engage with either of them or offer any explanation for his presence in Lauren Scott’s flat. In fact, he’d refused everything – a lawyer, a phone call, refreshments – seemingly intent on frustrating the process by his silence.

  ‘Look, I am happy to charge you without a statement. If that’s the way you want to play it, that’s fine. But I would like to understand why you were in the flat, Dean. Did you know Lauren Scott?’

  Dean slowly shook his head.

  ‘What about Matteo Dominici?’

  Another shake.

  ‘And yet you targeted their flat specifically. There were others which would have been easier to access – the back door to the basement flat was pretty flimsy and wasn’t overlooked. But instead you made your way straight to the third-floor flat, forcing the window and spending half an hour alone in there. Why?’

  This time there was no reaction. Just an unflinching stare.

  ‘We found these in your possession,’ McAndrew added, indicating an evidence bag containing several necklaces and rings. ‘They’re imitation, not worth much. I presume it wasn’t their value that appealed to you, so why did you take them? Are they precious to you?’

  Still nothing.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you that Lauren Scott was murdered recently,’ Helen resumed. ‘Shot three times and left to bleed out. What would you like to tell us about that? Why did you target her specifically?’

  Now, finally, Clarke reacted, snorting slightly, as he shook his head.

  ‘We know you have the propensity for this kind of thing. We’ve had a detailed look at your viewing habits, Dean, both on mainstream internet and the dark web. We’re aware that you regularly post explicit images of violence under the aliases “2Helmandback” and “Helmanned2008”.’

  A little flicker of something now. Hostility? Fear?

  ‘We also know that you buy and trade exotic weapons – knives, maces, crossbows. I take it this is you?’

  Helen offered him a screen grab of a masked man, matching his build and shape in every way, staring down the sight of a crossbow. Clarke licked his lips, but refused to comment, breaking eye contact for the first time, as Helen continued to stare at him.

  ‘Lauren Scott was shot three times with a crossbow, as was Tom Campbell. Both were abducted and transported in a Land Rover Defender, very much like the one you drove to Linacre Road last night. We’re conducting tests on your vehicle now, looking for traces of blood, saliva, skin, as well as running tests on a coil of rope we found in the boot of the vehicle. You can see where I’m going with this, can’t you, Dean?’

  He did and clearly didn’t like it.

  ‘Out of interest, why did you string them up? What was the point of that? You’ve got us baffled.’

  She said this with a smile, as if inviting him to confide among friends, but his response was terse.

  ‘This is bullshit.’

  ‘I’m genuinely interested,’ Helen persisted. ‘I’ve seen a few things in my time, but this is something … special. I’d like you to help us understand what’s going on. What had Lauren done to you? What had Tom done to you?’

  ‘I don’t know these people.’

  ‘But you do, Dean, in fact you know them intimately. So well that you could abduct and kill them without anyone noticing, not even the people who were sleeping next to them.’

  ‘You’ve no proof of that,’ he asserted, angrily.

  ‘On the contrary, we have plenty of proof. Not just evidence of your violent, sadistic nature, your love of weapons, your regular night-time excursions …’

  Another little flicker. This time Helen saw fear.

  ‘… We also have your method of transport, your visit to Lauren’s flat in search of – what? – trophies? keepsakes? – and evidence that you were stalking Tom Campbell in the days before he was abducted and killed.’

  Now Clarke looked rattled.

  ‘Following your excursion last night, we checked CCTV footage from the streets near Tom Campbell’s house. We didn’t find anything from the nights after his death, but look at these stills …’

  As she spoke, DC McAndrew slid a black-and-white image of a Land Rover Defender across the table.

  ‘Look at the number plate – it’s your vehicle. And here, in this one, we can see your face …’

  An angled shot revealed Clarke’s face peering out of the driver’s window. Though half cloaked in shadow, it was definitely him.

  ‘We have images from two different occasions when you parked up in Madeley Road,’ Helen said quickly. ‘Less than a hundred feet from where Tom Campbell lived.’

  She let this land.

  ‘You were stalking him, weren’t you? Perhaps you were checking out his daily routine? Perhaps you already knew he was going camping and were waiting for your moment to strike?’

  ‘No …’

  ‘Then why were you there? What was it about Tom Campbell that so excited you? Or perhaps it was his fiancée who interested you, Melanie?’

  ‘I’ve said I don’t know them,’ Clarke insisted.

  ‘But I don’t believe you, Dean. Unless there was some other reason you were in his street? In Lauren Scott’s flat?’

  Dean Clarke turned his face to the floor, repeatedly kicking the table leg. Helen watched him with growing satisfaction – he was obviously feeling the pressure.

  ‘What had they done, Dean? Why them?’ she continued. ‘Tom was engaged to be married, Lauren was pregnant …’

  Clarke stopped kicking.
>
  ‘Did you not know that? She was two months pregnant, a little boy. She had her whole future mapped out, a happy little family. But you snuffed that out.’

  ‘No …’

  ‘And a judge won’t look kindly on that. The baby had as much right to live as Tom and Lauren, so you’re looking at three life sentences. Not to mention what you’ll get for attempting to murder a police officer.’

  Clarke emitted a strangled noise – halfway between a cry and a roar. He was on the rack now, so Helen moved in for the kill.

  ‘My team are currently at your family home, tearing it apart, piece by piece. What’s the betting they are going to find a crossbow? The same crossbow that was used to kill Tom Campbell, Lauren Scott, her unborn son.’

  ‘Please stop this …’ Clarke moaned, cradling his head in his hands.

  ‘Then tell me why you did it. Why you murdered three innocent people?’

  Clarke continued to moan and shake his head, but Helen wasn’t finished:

  ‘Tell me why.’

  90

  Joseph Hudson stared in the mirror, sickened by the sight in front of him.

  His high collar barely concealed the livid bruising on his neck, which ran from his chin to his Adam’s apple, and there was little he could do to disguise the cuts and scratches on his cheek. A generous application of foundation, which he kept buried in his medicine bag, had dulled the abrasions, but little more. Worse still, though his throat hadn’t sustained any permanent damage, it was obviously enflamed, meaning his voice was hoarse and scratchy, drawing attention to his plight.