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

by M. J. Arlidge

  Helen was out there in the forest, facing down a sinister, unseen danger and there was no way he was going to abandon her to her fate.

  145

  ‘Stay close.’

  Her hushed command had an instant effect, the armed officers closing ranks once more, pushing forward in a tight arrowhead formation, with Helen at the tip. In normal circumstances, they would have led, as they were best placed to neutralize any immediate threat to life, but tonight was different. She was glad of their presence, but the young officers seemed jumpy, even a touch nervous, disconcerted by the all-encompassing darkness and the constant, low-level movement around them. And while she would need to call on them if they confronted Winter, she didn’t want them on point should they stumble across an errant camper or forest dweller. For now, she would take the lead, being their eyes and ears as they hunted a brutal killer.

  They had started from Burgate, on the western fringes of the forest, and pushed into the interior. Heading east, they had stuck to the paths, fanning out on occasion, before resuming formation, constantly scanning the gloom for signs of life. It was possible that Winter might skirt the edges of the forest, keeping out of sight, but still able to flee its confines if necessary, but something told Helen that he would head deep into the interior, taking refuge in the dark heart of the forest.

  On they went, treading carefully over fallen branches, avoiding the numerous holes that littered the forest floor. They kept their torch beams low, keen to see what was directly in front of them, without advertising their progress. Looking at the tiny beams, pin pricks by comparison with the monumental darkness of the forest, it was hard not to feel like they were looking for a needle in a haystack. But it was too late for second thoughts now. They had committed to a course of action and Helen knew they had to see it through.

  She marched on, sliding her radio from her belt as she did so. Teasing it on, she turned down the volume. In the far distance, she could just make out the dull thud of the police chopper. Soon it would be time to check in with Charlie, to co-ordinate their sweep of the forest, but she would not do it yet. Any sound might alert Winter to their approach and she dared not risk that, when he already had a huge advantage.

  They walked on in silence, swallowing the occasional curse as their feet hit a hidden root or rabbit hole, searching diligently for their quarry. The forest, which had been close-knit thus far, suffocatingly close at times, now seemed to thin out and to her surprise Helen thought she could see light ahead.

  Increasing her pace, she moved towards it, only to find that it was moonlight, filling a small clearing. The moon was full tonight and illuminated the space below brilliantly, making the clearing look eerily beautiful, but also dangerous – it was open ground surrounded on all sides by shadowy woodland.

  ‘Easy now …’

  Helen held up her hand and the team slowed. Carefully, Helen stepped out into the clearing. But her entrance provoked no reaction, no movement of any kind, and cautiously the rest of the team joined her. They held their line, alert to any sign of threat, but seeing none they pressed on, emerging into the stark moonlight.

  Instinctively, Helen was keen to be away – they were sitting ducks out here. She hurried towards the far side of the clearing. She was twenty feet from the cover of darkness, now ten, now five … Breathing a sigh of relief, she raised her torch beam towards the dense brush once more. To find a pair of eyes staring directly at her.

  ‘Here.’

  Immediately the team swung their weapons that way, their torch beams zeroing in on their prey.

  ‘Armed police. Lay down your –’

  But before the lead officer had completed his warning, the owl had taken fright, leaving its perch and flapping wildly as it made its escape. Raising their weapons, the officers turned to Helen, who signalled her apologies and gestured to them to continue. They did so without a murmur, focused on the task in hand.

  Helen was glad of their professionalism, of their determination, but whatever confidence she projected, the incident had done little to raise her spirits, or indeed her hopes. Her heart was thumping, her nerves jangling wildly, and she suddenly felt very vulnerable. The forest was so vast, so full of life, so swathed in darkness and mystery, that suddenly she sensed threat at every turn. Perhaps Winter was staring at them right now, readying himself to strike. There would be no warning, no tell-tale gunfire, just the savage impact of the bolt, as it tore into them. Helen had never felt so defenceless, so exposed before, fearing that each step might be her last.

  But they had no choice, so on they went, searching remorselessly for a phantom killer who refused to reveal himself.

  146

  He reached out a hand, then suddenly pulled it back again. Even now, when he had come so far, risked so much, he was unsure if he could go through with it. It was a pathetic sight, a grown man hesitating to enter an aged phone box, but still it felt wrong, like he would be betraying himself by touching it.

  Summoning his resolve, Nathaniel Martin took a step forward and hauled the heavy iron door open. It relented easily, revealing a grubby interior which reeked of urine. The occasional tourist stopped to use this relic of the pre-mobile era – Martin had spotted them several times – but mostly it was used by drunken farmers or teenagers keen to leave their mark on the proud red landmark.

  Stepping inside, Martin let the door shut. The smell was even stronger now and immediately he felt assailed by a wave of claustrophobia, a growing nausea. He knew that if he hesitated now he would lose his nerve, that he would turn and retreat to the forest, so taking another step forward he plucked the plastic handset from its cradle.

  Immediately, he heard the gentle purr of the dialling tone. For a moment, he was rocketed back to his teenage days, when he used to call his girlfriend in stolen moments away from the house. But those pleasurable memories were at odds with the bitter present and he wrenched himself back to the task in hand.

  He had debated long and hard about what to do. He had vowed never to engage with the world, had certainly never thought he would willingly use any kind of technology again, but what was the alternative? He had known for a while now that there was something malign in the forest. But until tonight he hadn’t known what – or rather who – it was.

  He had left his camp for the evening, taking advantage of the darkness to check his traps. The forest had been unusually quiet tonight and in other circumstances he might not have heard him, so gentle was his footfall. But his senses had always been sharp and he had been on his guard for search parties. Straining to hear, he was sure he could pick up the gentle sound – trump, trump, trump – of someone approaching. Immediately, he had withdrawn, concealing himself in the depths of a yew tree. For reasons he couldn’t explain, his heart was suddenly thumping, fear seizing him, but he kept stock-still, even as the figure crept past. Nathaniel didn’t get a good look at his face – he appeared to be wearing a mask – but he couldn’t miss the crossbow that he cradled. Barely daring to breathe, he’d watched as the figure walked on for another fifty feet or so, before sitting down to rest by Cooper’s Lake.

  Instantly, Nathaniel was on the move. The figure’s back was turned to him and he took full advantage, picking his way through the forest. He kept going for half a mile, maybe more, moving swiftly, before doubling back and heading for the forest edge. From here it was a short stroll to the phone box.

  Breathing out, he raised the grubby receiver to his ear. He had hoped never to do this again, but the evil abroad could not be ignored, so pulling DS Brooks’s crumpled business card from his pocket, he began to dial.

  147

  She should have felt like a god, but in fact she just felt sick. The helicopter was circling the forest in lazy arcs, firing its high-intensity spotlight down onto the woodland. Charlie was in the box seat, afforded a view of the national park that few were lucky enough to see, but she wasn’t in the mood to enjoy it. In the darkness, the huge swathe of forest looked sinister, like a blot on the landscap
e, prompting Charlie to imagine all manner of threats lying within. More pressingly, for her at least, the wind was strong tonight, buffeting their light craft, making it judder and buck. Charlie was not prone to motion sickness as a rule, but wave after wave of nausea swept over her, unremitting, remorseless.

  She clung to the roof strap, hoping that she would manage to see the night through without vomiting. Such a lapse would be not only embarrassing, but also extremely unpleasant for her and the pilot, crammed together in the small cockpit. So, overcoming her nausea, she tried to concentrate on her job, scanning the woodland below for signs of their suspect.

  But it was proving harder than she’d hoped. When she’d done this before, they’d been shadowing a fleeing suspect on the roads. Then it had been easy to pick him up – the electric-blue Vauxhall standing out like a sore thumb, as it tore around a suburban housing estate. Furthermore, it had been easy to predict where he would go, the roads looking like a Lego construction from above.

  But woodland at night was a different prospect. Stay too high and they couldn’t see enough. Descend too low and suddenly the forest canopy came alive, waving violently in the down draught of the rotary blades. Even when they got it just right – no easy task in the gusting wind – the spotlight wasn’t foolproof. Its powerful beam illuminated much, but also created vast shadows. On more than one occasion, Charlie thought she’d seen a fleeing figure, only for it to evaporate like a mirage when she pointed the beam directly at it. She was wondering now if she was starting to imagine things, so tight were her nerves wound tonight.

  ‘Do you want to go around again?’

  They had completed one circuit of the area to the north and her pilot needed fresh instructions. Charlie was pondering what to do next – should they head south towards Helen or cut east? – when suddenly her phone started vibrating. Pulling it from her pocket, she looked down at the caller ID. It was a local number and one she didn’t recognize, so she pressed reject, keen to keep the line clear. Turning to the pilot, she replied:

  ‘I think we should head –’

  But now her phone started up again. This time she answered, albeit with ill grace.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Detective Brooks, it’s Nathaniel Martin.’

  Charlie wasn’t sure she’d heard properly over the noise of the blades.

  ‘Sorry, who?’

  ‘Nathaniel Martin, we met a few days ago.’

  ‘Yes, of course …’ Charlie replied falteringly, stumped as to how to respond.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you …’

  He was speaking slowly and in an exaggeratedly polite manner, as if talking to another human being was dangerous, exotic or both. But there was a hint of urgency in his voice too, as he concluded:

  ‘… but I have information that you might find useful.’

  148

  ‘Are you sure it was him?’

  Helen had asked Charlie to repeat herself a couple of times, but she still didn’t believe it.

  ‘Yes, definitely. He talked about our encounter, knew who I was. And he was only calling me because he had my card.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘I’ve no reason not to. He sounded genuinely angry and concerned. He loves the forest, the ponies.’

  ‘And where did he say Winter was?’

  ‘He last saw him resting by Cooper’s Lake. It’s a small lake that feeds off Latchmere Brook.’

  Helen’s torch beam moved over her map.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ she said quickly.

  It was in the most remote part of the forest, which was precisely where she had led the team. This was where the first murder had taken place, was perhaps where Winter felt safest – it made sense that he would have retreated here.

  ‘I’m about five minutes from it. Hold a position to the east, until I radio you to move. I don’t want to frighten him off, now that we have the advantage.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Helen clicked off, radioing the news to Hudson, before turning to face her armed officers once more.

  ‘Right. Cooper’s Lake. Quick and quiet, please.’

  They hurried through the forest, hurdling the obstacles which lay in their path. Their torches were on their lowest setting, but such was the strength of the moonlight that the going was fairly clear. So far everything had been against them, but suddenly it felt as if the wind was at their backs.

  Helen powered forward, challenging the others to keep up. She had felt on the back foot for most of this investigation, pursuing numerous false leads and dead ends. Now she felt energized and excited. Winter had eluded them for days, but at long last they had a concrete lead, a chance to bring this violent, sadistic killer to book. Helen prayed he had stayed put, or if he’d moved on that he wasn’t travelling fast. If he eluded them now, it might take hours, even days, to pick up his trail again. He had already proved himself adept at blending in with the fabric of the forest.

  On she surged, marvelling at how the forest seemed to open up for her. Previously it had tried to thwart her, tearing at her clothes and skin, leading her down blind alleys. But now it appeared to make way for her, presenting her with clear, open paths and well-lit vistas. On she went, barely breaking sweat, her pace steady and strong, only now realizing that she had opened up a lead over the rest of her team. Slowing down, she held up her torch beam for them to follow, then resumed her headlong charge through the gloomy woodland.

  But as she did so, her foot caught something. Suddenly she felt herself plunging forward, off balance and out of control. She expected to hit the ground hard, but to her horror now felt herself falling. Her hands lashed out desperately, hoping to find some kind of purchase, but clutched only air. Moments later, her shoulder collided with something hard and she seemed to spin around, jerking violently in a dizzying 180. Now she was on the ground, but her descent had not slowed, she was skidding fast backwards down some kind of slope. Brambles tore at her, branches whipped her face, but she seemed to be picking up speed, rather than slowing, then suddenly she came to an abrupt halt, the back of her head hitting something hard and unyielding.

  She lay there, too stunned to move. For a moment, she thought she was going to faint – the pain in her head was unbearable – but she willed herself to stay conscious. She dared not black out here.

  She tried to rise, but immediately fell back again, overcome by nausea. Instinctively, her hand went to the back of her head. She was alarmed to feel fresh blood. Was any other part of her injured? Groggily, she rotated her hands, then her feet, before running her hands over her ribs. She didn’t think anything was broken, yet every part of her hurt and she wasn’t even sure she could move. Which made her feel distinctly uneasy.

  Now, up above, she saw movement. Tiny lights dancing to and fro. To her horror, she realized that they must be the torch lights of her colleagues. But they seemed to be up in the sky, miles away from where she was. Screwing up her eyes, she tried to focus on the darkness in front of her, and only now did she get a sense of just how far she had fallen. She must have plunged a hundred feet or more, utterly failing to see the steep slope in front of her. Now her support unit was at the top, desperately searching for her, while she lay in a heap at the bottom swathed in darkness.

  Had they even seen her fall? Did they know she was down here?

  ‘Help.’

  Her voice was weak and croaky.

  ‘Help!’

  She tried to shout, but she had no air in her lungs. Above her, the torch beams were moving around frantically, as if conducting some mad dance.

  ‘I’m here.’

  This was a bit louder, her desperation raising the volume. And for one thrilling moment, she thought they’d heard, the beams suddenly ceasing their wild activity. But then to her dismay, she saw the beams moving off in unison, heading away from her.

  ‘Wait …’

  But it was too late, they were gone. For a moment, Helen lay there, despairing, before suddenly remembering her radi
o. This filled her with hope and from nowhere she found the energy to scramble onto her hands and knees. She grasped at her belt … only to find her radio was no longer there. Nor was her baton. Panicking, she thrust her hand into her pocket, but the map was gone too. And her torch? That was presumably buried or broken on the slope above, as she could no longer make out its beam.

  Struggling to her feet, Helen looked around her. But she could make nothing out, save for the outline of the swaying trees and the sound of the whistling wind. Her sturdy leathers had saved her from serious injury, but that was about the best that could be said for her in her predicament.

  She was shaken. She was lost. And she was now alone in the forest.

  149

  He remained motionless, only his eyes moving as he watched her pick her way through the undergrowth. She was clearly disoriented, constantly changing direction as she tried to get her bearings. At one point, she had been heading directly for him, forcing him to recede further into the shadows, but then she had thought better of it, finding an easier path elsewhere.

  If Fate was smiling on him, she would connect with her colleagues and move on, yet still she lingered, as if riven by indecision. She clearly did not know these woods as well as he did, but her ignorance might yet cost him dear. If she decided to stay put until her colleagues located her, he would effectively be trapped, the moonlight too strong for him to risk making a break for it.

  How had they found him so quickly? It didn’t make any sense. He had retreated to the woods a matter of hours earlier, driving hard into its depths, staying well away from the beaten paths. He had kept his pace up, pausing only to rest and refresh himself at Cooper’s Lake, before moving on once more. He had covered another half a mile at best, before he’d spotted them – torch beams away to his left, high up on the ridge. At first it was just one, which seemed to wobble, then plummet, as its unfortunate carrier pitched over the edge. Then several more followed – six, seven, perhaps as many as eight pin pricks of light dancing at the top of the slope. These had been more cautious, eventually moving away, leaving their fallen colleague alone.