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

  M. J. Arlidge

  * * *

  DOWN TO THE WOODS

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Chapter 122

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Chapter 127

  Chapter 128

  Chapter 129

  Chapter 130

  Chapter 131

  Chapter 132

  Chapter 133

  Chapter 134

  Chapter 135

  Chapter 136

  Chapter 137

  Chapter 138

  Chapter 139

  Chapter 140

  Chapter 141

  Chapter 142

  Chapter 143

  Chapter 144

  Chapter 145

  Chapter 146

  Chapter 147

  Chapter 148

  Chapter 149

  Chapter 150

  Chapter 151

  Chapter 152

  Chapter 153

  Chapter 154

  Chapter 155

  Epilogue

  Chapter 156

  Chapter 157

  Chapter 158

  Follow Penguin

  1

  She reached out, but found only emptiness. The silky fabric was cool to her touch, which confused her. Where there should be a warm, sentient being, there was just … a void.

  Unnerved, Melanie Walton hauled herself upright. Immediately she regretted it, her burgeoning headache slapping into her forehead. Every time she and Tom went camping it was the same. Plans for a relaxed, restrained evening soon gave way to unbridled hedonism – a roaring fire, loud music, then the inevitable bourbon-fuelled sex. In truth, Melanie wouldn’t have it any other way – she could still feel Tom’s presence on her skin, which made the emptiness next to her even more confusing.

  Their tent was old and cramped – a poky two-manner Tom had picked up in a clearance sale – and Melanie was used to having her fiancé’s reassuring bulk next to her. True, he snored, but the bourbon helped block that out and she loved the feeling of the pair of them snuggled up together under the stars. Usually the thought made her smile, but not tonight – as she craned around to peer through the darkness, the sight of Tom’s empty sleeping bag confirmed what she already knew. She was alone.

  Darting a look to her right, she saw that the tent flaps were open, swaying gently back and forth in the breeze. Immediately she felt a stab of irritation – it was just like Tom to stumble off to the toilet block and forget to close them. She’d taken him to task about it before. She wasn’t naturally fearful, but they weren’t the only people on the campsite and anyone could wander in. The fact that a zipped-up tent provided little protection against a determined intruder was beside the point – she just didn’t like the idea of someone being able to see into their little sanctuary.

  Melanie stayed seated for a couple more minutes – listening for signs of Tom’s stumbling progress, rehearsing a good-humoured barb for his return – but it remained doggedly quiet outside. Cursing, she gave up the wait, tugging on her jeans and flip-flops before crawling out of the tent.

  It had been a warm summer’s day, but the cool night air made her shiver as she emerged from her cocoon. It caressed her shoulders and neck and she wrapped her goose-pimpled arms around her as she scanned the campsite. Earlier the place had been lively – it was the first sustained period of good weather and dozens of campers had abandoned Southampton to pitch tent at this New Forest site – but now it was deathly quiet. All that could be heard was the murmuring of the breeze and the occasional satisfied snore.

  ‘Tom?’

  Her gentle plea drifted away on the wind. Where was he? Often during his night-time sorties to the ablutions Tom would hum to himself, the refrain of earlier tunes cannoning around his brain, but tonight she could hear nothing. Nor was there any light coming from the toilet block.

  ‘Tom? Are you there?’

  Louder this time – her anxiety overcoming her fear of disturbing others – but still there was no response. Was he playing a trick on her? Waiting to jump out and surprise her? It was not his style – normally he was dead to the world at this time of night – but what other explanation could there be?

  ‘If this is supposed to be funny …’

  She was careless of her volume now. She just w
anted to find him, give him a bollocking, then return to the tent. Their night, which had been so pleasant, was swiftly turning sour.

  ‘I mean it, Tom. If you’re there, if this is some kind of trick …’

  Her voice quivered, distress and fear mastering her. If it was a game, surely Tom would have brought it to an end by now? He wasn’t cruel or hurtful. He was sweet, loving, kind …

  ‘Please, Tom. You’re scaring me,’ she continued, tears pricking her eyes. ‘Where are you?’

  But her words fell away, dying quietly in the darkness.

  2

  She crept through the gloom, taking care not to make a sound. The terrain was unfamiliar and she had to tread carefully to avoid a bed post, a chair, some discarded clothing. She suddenly realized that she was holding her breath. Stupid really, but if it lessened her chances of detection, so be it. She was determined to escape unmolested.

  Bending down, Helen scooped up her underwear, her clothes and finally her biking leathers. These were the hardest to slip on discreetly – they were old and battle hardened, creaking noisily as they encased her. But the well-built man slumbering peacefully in the bed a few yards away seemed not to notice. Exhaling a sigh of relief, Helen took a couple of quick steps towards the bedroom door, grasping the handle gratefully.

  ‘Jane?’

  Helen stopped in her tracks, then turned slowly.

  ‘Early start. Sorry …’

  If he saw through her weak lie, Daniel didn’t show it. Running a hand through his tousled hair, he gazed at her happily, memories of an enjoyable encounter still fresh in his mind.

  ‘So … can we do this again some time?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  It was said too quickly, sounded unconvincing, which was stupid, because a part of Helen would have liked to spend another night with this attractive stranger. Things had been so turbulent recently – the inquest into DS Sanderson’s death in action and Helen’s subsequent (in her view unwarranted) exoneration – that it had been liberating to cut loose for a night. She had met Daniel at a new club off Lime Street, singling him out as the only person there strong enough and brave enough to give her the pain she craved. Their session had been unremitting and gratifying and it was no surprise to Helen when they tumbled into his flat shortly afterwards. Nor, depressingly, was her desire to flee, as soon as their encounter was over.

  ‘Can I get your number then …?’

  It was said casually, but did Helen detect a firmness behind the request? A desire not to be treated as a one-night plaything? Helen hesitated before responding. She wasn’t sure she was ready to go there and, besides, handing over her personal details would reveal that she had been lying all night – about her background, her job, her name …

  ‘Jane?’

  His soft voice cut through her absorption, underscoring her mendacity. And perhaps if they had had this conversation in bed together, naked and intimate, she might have confessed, might have been persuaded. But here she was, dressed in her battle armour and ready to go.

  ‘I’ll see you at the club.’

  Daniel knew it was a brush-off and, to his credit, didn’t challenge her as she slipped from the room. Angry with herself, Helen marched away, her pace rising with each step. Having done the deed, she just wanted to find her bike and go home. But even as she charged along the corridor, familiar doubts, familiar questions confronted her. Busy as she was, committed as she was to leading Southampton’s Major Incident Team, there was no denying that she was lonely. She needed a release, she needed company, she needed life to counter the darkness that consumed her, within and without, so when it was offered to her, why did she push it away? What was wrong with her?

  Why did she always run?

  3

  He crashed through the undergrowth, tearing wildly at the foliage. Pain coursed through him as the thorns ripped at his skin, but on he went, charging blindly forward. He had no sense of where he had come from, nor where he was heading, only the conviction that he had to keep going.

  He was dressed in boxer shorts and T-shirt, but even these flimsy garments conspired to frustrate him, the gnarled bushes catching at the fabric, tugging him back towards danger. It was as if the forest itself were his enemy tonight, but fear drove him on and, summoning his strength, he burst forward once more, emerging from the dense foliage onto solid ground. For a moment, the way seemed to open up for him – was that a track ahead, amid the gloom? – and he took full advantage, sprinting away. But as soon as he did so, a savage pain tore through him, bringing him to an abrupt, juddering halt.

  He had been making good progress, but suddenly realized he was unable to put any weight on his left foot. Casting an anguished look behind him, Tom bent down to examine his sole. To his horror, he saw a large, jagged thorn – an inch long at least – embedded in the soft flesh. Already the skin was puckering up, pink and angry, as blood oozed from the deep wound. An anguished whimper escaped his lips, but he swallowed it down. He dared not make a sound.

  Gritting his teeth, he fixed his fingertips around the end of the thorn. A silent count of three, then he tugged hard, ripping the thorn clean out. Another gasp of agony, then a brief rush of relief, before a dull, nagging pain reasserted itself. Could he walk on it? Could he run on it? It seemed impossible, given the pulsing ache, but he had to try.

  Scrambling behind a gorse bush, Tom scanned the woodland around him. He was out there somewhere … the question was, where? Tom had been fleeing for ten minutes, maybe more, and his pursuer had been a steady presence all the while, dogging his footsteps. Occasionally he heard him – the snap of a twig, the rustle of a bush. Sometimes he glimpsed him – a tall, shadowy figure – but it was his presence he could feel the most – malevolent, menacing, relentless.

  Suddenly, movement to his left. Tom turned sharply … but it was just a small rodent darting across the forest floor. Turning his gaze back to the murk in front of him, he screwed up his eyes, peering into the darkness for signs of his pursuer. But he was nowhere to be seen. The forest was quiet.

  Part of Tom still wanted to believe this was all a bad dream, that before long he would wake, restless and hungover, next to Melanie. He knew, though, that this was too vivid to be a dream. But how was that possible? How could he have ended up here? He had gone to bed happily drunk, next to the woman he loved … and he’d woken, confused and half naked, in a strange part of the forest, a shadowy, hooded figure ordering him to run.

  Breathing deeply, Tom tried to calm himself. If he was to survive, he would have to be smart, to make the right choices. Swiftly, he cast around him – hoping to make out his pursuer, but also searching for an escape route. Some sign as to which way to run. There was a faint track behind him, but there was also something that looked like a path a short distance away to the right.

  Which one should he choose? How could he be sure that either would deliver him to safety, when he had no idea where he was? There was no sign of the campsite, any habitation, indeed any human presence nearby. Could he even be sure he was still in the New Forest?

  Panicking, he flicked his gaze between the two paths. He was suddenly gripped by indecision, aware how costly the wrong choice would be. He didn’t know why he was being hunted, which way he should go, nor what kind of agonies lay in store for him.

  All he did know was that death was stalking him tonight.

  4

  A piercing scream rent the air. It was shrill, agonized, fearful, jolting Charlie awake. Immediately, she was on the move, but her body struggled to keep up with her brain and she half fell, half stumbled towards the door. Pulling it open, she hurried across the darkened landing, pushing into Jessica’s bedroom.

  Her daughter was sitting bolt upright in bed, her eyes wide with terror. Stricken, Charlie went to her, wrapping her arms around the petrified four-year-old.

  ‘It’s ok, sweetie. Mummy’s here.’

  An elbow flew out, catching Charlie in the neck. Stunned, she gasped, robbed of breath, as her daug
hter thrashed in her arms.

  ‘No, no, no …’ Jessica moaned, seemingly determined to fight off her mother.

  ‘Jessie, it’s me. Everything’s ok …’

  But tears were already filling Charlie’s eyes. The shock of being struck mingling with a profound sense of helplessness. Things were very far from ok. This was the fifth evening in a row that Jessica had suffered from night terrors.

  ‘She all right?’

  Steve had now entered, looking bleary as he stumbled towards her in his baggy pyjamas. Charlie didn’t trust herself to speak, so simply shook her head. Steve joined them, wrapping his arms around the frantic child. Gradually, the struggling subsided, Jessica’s eyes slowly drooping, and eventually she allowed herself to be lowered onto her bed.

  ‘I want to go to sleep now,’ she announced drowsily, turning away from them.

  Still shaking, Charlie pulled the sheet up around her shoulders, tucking her daughter in. Incredibly, Jessica was already asleep, slumbering peacefully as if nothing had happened. Charlie’s nerves were still jangling, however, and she remained stooped over her child, as if expecting her to rear up again.

  ‘Come on, let’s go to bed.’

  A gentle tap on the shoulder, nudging her towards the door.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Steve persisted gently. ‘Let’s get some sleep.’

  ‘Two minutes.’

  He padded away. Charlie suspected he’d swallowed a sigh, which she was grateful for. She couldn’t handle any censure right now – she felt bad enough as it was. Each night was the same – an episode of unmitigated terror, then hours of peaceful sleep. In the morning, Jessica had no recollection of the night’s events, nor any explanation of what had scared her.

  In snatched moments at work, Charlie had trawled NHS websites and family health guides, trying to get some information on the causes of Jessica’s nightly anguish. But guidance was scant and far from reassuring – the terrors seemed to have no obvious cause, nor a proven way of making them go away. At some unspecified point they would just stop.

  Charlie had her own suspicions regarding the cause, however. Jessica was nearing the end of her first full year at school and, while things had gone well initially, recently she’d started complaining, attempting to wriggle out of going to school by complaining of tiredness, even illness. Perhaps she was telling the truth – it was exhausting for a nursery child to move into full-time education – but Charlie couldn’t help wondering if there was more to it than that. Was it a problem with the teacher, Mrs Barnard, whom everyone thought strict? A friendship problem with one of the other children? Was it even possible that Jessie was being bullied?