Martin Edwards - The Hanging Wood

‘Surely he can’t have become so bored with his luxury holiday home that he went in search of adventure?’

‘Naughty not to heed the notices telling him to “keep out”.’ Greg shot her a glance. ‘He must be as keen to get into the Mockbeggar Estate as the Madsens are to warn off intruders.’

They reached the outer fringe of the Hanging Wood. As they moved between the trees, the temperature seemed to drop two or three degrees. Wych elms towered above them, along with rowan, ash and oak. Coarse grass, heather and spiky brambles obscured the old path, ivy tendrils smothered the bark.

‘Did you think the chap seemed familiar?’ she said at last.

A brisk nod. ‘Hard to tell from that camera angle, but he reminded me of the bloke we saw outside Mike Hinds’ farm.’

So she hadn’t imagined it. ‘Me too.’

They pushed on along the half-hidden track, ducking their heads under low and heavy branches. A foetid stench wafted from a small stagnant pond. Greg trod on a fallen branch, and the snap of wood sounded like a pistol shot.

Out of the blue, he said, ‘I read up about wych elms last night.’

‘You did?’ He had this knack of setting her back on her heels.

He kicked the broken branch out of his way. ‘Idle curiosity, that’s all.’

Hannah guessed he wanted to understand the environment in which Philip Hinds had lived and died. He’d never admit it; he didn’t want to seem touchy-feely. She remembered Ben Kind preaching the importance of getting under the victim’s skin. Do that, he maintained, and you were halfway to getting under the killer’s skin. Not that anybody thought of Philip as a victim. Except for Orla.

‘Disease killed a lot of elms,’ Greg said. ‘Even so, some trees survived. Turns out there’s something macabre about wych elms. They feature in a lot of folklore. Traditionally, they were associated with melancholy and death.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Nobody knows for sure. Perhaps because they drop old branches that can crack your skull, like the one I just tripped over. Possibly because they look like they are weeping. Or because elm was used to make coffins.’

His thirst for finding things out reminded her of Marc. Daniel Kind, too. This energy and enthusiasm for stockpiling scraps of knowledge, she couldn’t help finding it attractive, although she never quite understood why. They walked on in silence, their route carpeted by ferns and moss. Greg was right about the mood conjured up by the wych elms. The sun was barely visible through the canopy of leaves, and there was an earthy primitive smell in the air. Even on a day like this, the Hanging Wood had the odour of decay. Purple foxgloves supplied a scattering of colour, but for Hannah, the flowers conjured up sinister memories. They were poisonous, and when she was small, a thoughtless uncle warned her that nibbling the stems in his garden would kill her. She’d spent the rest of the day in a state of terror. She remembered his nickname for foxgloves: dead man’s bells.

She’d seen photos of Philip Hinds in the files. A bulky shambling man, whose eyes looked anywhere but straight at the camera. He’d felt at home in this melancholy wood, where nobody bothered him. Inside the big body was someone small and frightened, unable to cope when his world was invaded. How must it feel to live like Philip, encircled by tall forbidding trees, with only a fat smelly pig for company? The Hanging Wood covered a tiny area, yet the bright world outside seemed as remote as a faraway land. Philip’s brother had no time for him, and for the Madsens he was no more than a backup handyman. Yet even a man who craved solitude must sometimes yearn for someone to talk to. No wonder he’d welcomed fleeting human contact when his young nephew and niece came to play. You wouldn’t need to be a closet paedophile to relish their zest, their innocence, their lust for life.

Durston had found no evidence that Philip had harmed Callum, far less that he was responsible for his death. The case against him was hopelessly circumstantial. But convenient.

The track sloped gently into a dip where the trees thinned, and soon they reached a clearing. Fir cones were scattered over the ground; they’d been chewed by the squirrels. Sycamores had seeded, but too few to block the sun, which blazed down on a thick tangle of brambles and grass.

‘So this is where the cottage stood,’ Greg said.

Nature had reclaimed the site of Philip Hinds’ home; every trace of his existence had been erased from the Hanging Wood. The undergrowth was so thick that you couldn’t see where the foundations of the cottage had stood, or any sign of a pigsty. In the middle of the clearing, grass and brambles had been hewn back around a small sandstone tablet. The letters had worn, but the inscription was perfectly readable.

In Loving Memory of Callum Hinds .

A single rose lay at the foot of the table, a splash of crimson amidst the green and brown.

‘Well, well,’ Greg said. ‘You reckon that bloke on the CCTV came here and left the rose, before he wandered into the Mockbeggar grounds?’

‘But why?’ She inhaled the perfume of the luscious bloom. Rich and strong, a contrast with the dank foliage. ‘What reason could he have for taking an interest in a boy who disappeared twenty years ago?’

‘If he’s staying at the holiday park, we should be able to track him down.’

‘As for poor old Philip, not a mention. Far less a floral tribute.’

‘Can you wonder?’

She sighed. ‘Not really, though this was his domain, the place where he lived and died. With Callum, nobody knows for sure where he died. According to the file, his mother wanted some sort of memorial to the lad placed here, as well as a stone in the local cemetery. Joseph Madsen insisted on paying for it himself. The Paynes, Mike Hinds, the Madsen family, none of them wanted to think about the man they blamed for Callum’s death. He was the bad guy, he deserved nothing.’

Greg looked around. ‘Did they chop down the wych elm he hanged himself from?’

A cloud of midges buzzed around Hannah’s head, persistent as paparazzi. She swatted them away. ‘Of course. The tree and the cottage, they both had to go.’

The detectives contemplated the sandstone memorial. Everything was still; no birds sang in the trees, no breeze rustled the leaves. People supposed a savage murder had taken place in this quiet and lonely spot, but you would never guess.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Greg asked.

She managed a smile, still trying to make sense of the strange idea. ‘Depends on what you’re thinking.’

‘It seems crazy,’ he muttered.

‘Go on.’

She felt tense, expectant.

Greg took a breath. ‘We’re assuming the man at the farm, the man in the wood, the person who left the red rose, were one and the same?’

‘Agreed.’

She was sure he’d had the same idea, and she found it thrilling. Detective work did this to you, if you cared enough about your job. She’d learnt as much from Ben Kind. Solving a mystery was a turn-on, he said, and he was right. In her excitement, she had to force herself not to give Greg a hug.

His eyes were shining, and she knew he was excited too.

‘What if we’ve just seen Callum Hinds?’

‘It was something and nothing,’ Kit Payne said. ‘When you run a large holiday park, there are a thousand and one issues to deal with every day. That’s the price of working in the service sector, dealing with Joe Public. Our insurance premium costs rise year on year, and don’t get me started on legal fees.’

Hannah and Greg had bumped into him on their way back, as he said goodbye to the visiting Bulgars. Hannah asked whether the security wardens had found the man spotted wandering around the grounds of Mockbeggar Hall. Kit said that by the time the wardens turned up, he had vanished, and he might have headed off in any number of directions. Back to the holiday park, most likely, but he could just as easily have walked to Mike Hinds’ farm, along the lane that ran from the Hall, or over towards St Herbert’s Residential Library. Kit said his sole concern was to make sure the chap wasn’t at risk of coming a cropper on Madsen property, and claiming compensation for personal injury.