S. Bolton - Dead Scared

I moved closer. The doll was about three feet high. Its arms and legs seemed to have been made from a creamy-coloured cotton. It wore a yellow dress, stained by rain, mildew and bird droppings. Matching fabric had been sewn around its feet to simulate shoes. Its hands had been painted. Its hair was made from orange wool, twisted either side of its face in two plaits. Both were tied with large yellow bows. Its face was grotesque. A huge, grinning, misshapen mouth, heavy brows and fierce black eyes. A massive scar ran down the right cheek. This was no child’s toy: this had been made to scare. And it worked.

I made my way round the tree, giving the hanging figure a wide birth, suddenly feeling that a second encounter with a territorial bird might not be such a bad idea. Definitely not a bad idea, because the rag doll wasn’t the only thing hanging by the neck in these woods. Directly in front of me was an animal, swinging gently as though someone had given it a playful tap not moments before.

The fox was real. There was blood around its neck, which meant it had probably been alive when it was strung up here. On another tree, about five yards away, I could see another hanging figure. I was too far away to be sure it wasn’t human so I had to go closer. Too small to be adult, only about three or four feet high. I was close enough. Another hideously painted cotton face. Red hair this time, tied with blue ribbon.

Oh, this felt very wrong.

‘These woods are private.’

I’d had no idea anyone was near by and yet the small, silver-haired man had crept up close enough to touch. He was in country clothes, brown corduroy trousers and an oilskin coat.

‘What’s going on here?’ I asked without thinking, indicating the nearest doll. ‘What is this?’

I had to half admire the way a man hardly more than five foot seven could look down his nose at me. ‘Did you hear what I said?’ he asked. ‘Do you understand the word private?’

Oh, to have had my warrant card. ‘Sorry,’ I said, through gritted teeth.

‘That’s your quickest way out,’ he said, pointing to the field on my right, the one I’d been running through when the bird attacked. ‘I suggest you take it.’

I looked towards the industrial estate. ‘I’ll go that way,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit dark to be running through fields.’

His outstretched right arm didn’t budge. ‘That way,’ he said.

A bit annoyed now, I wished him a good evening and stepped to the side, meaning to go round him and head towards the buildings. He mirrored me, effectively blocking my path.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I asked him, sounding bolshie enough but just beginning to be a tiny bit afraid of him. He was in his early sixties and, whilst not a big man by any means, would probably outmatch me in strength. And there was something in his eyes that didn’t look quite reasonable.

‘My land,’ he said. ‘I can do what I like.’

‘No you can’t,’ I told him. ‘Get out of my way.’

He didn’t move. Except to point more emphatically with his right hand. ‘That is your way.’

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘What’s yours?’ he replied.

Well, he had me there. Laura Farrow could not get into a public argument with a local landowner. If the regional police got involved, they’d find out soon enough that Laura Farrow didn’t exist. It could blow the whole undercover operation.

‘Have a nice evening, sir,’ I told him, which, on reflection, probably wasn’t wise. Wishing someone a pleasant evening and calling them sir was a decidedly copper-ish thing to do. I turned and walked quickly to the edge of the woodland. Once more over the fence and I was in the field. When I turned back, he was still watching me.

I started running. Didn’t stop till I got to my car.

I got home to an email message from Evi, asking if I might be free to join her at a supper party the following night. It would be a chance for me to meet more people, she said, and might give the two of us time to talk if anything had come up.

It would also, I realized, give me a chance to ask her about Nick Bell, whether she knew him, what she thought of him. I sent her a quick message back saying I’d be happy to join her and she replied instantly with the address. A farmhouse just outside Cambridge. We’d meet there at eight.

I spent the evening cruising the net again, looking for sites that might be inciting vulnerable people like Bryony, Nicole and Jackie to take their own lives. If they were out there, they were elusive. I was getting increasingly convinced that Evi’s theory wasn’t right. When I felt as if my eyes were in danger of falling out of their sockets, I sent my report to Joesbury and went to bed.

JOESBURY LET OUT the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. For the love of … What part of you are not there to investigate was the woman struggling with? He leaned back, stretched, rubbed his eyes and read the paragraph again.

This isn’t date rape, remember, Sir. These four women, five including Bryony, didn’t go home with someone they met in a bar. They all believed someone came into their room at night, while they slept, and abused them. Most girls in college-type environments lock their rooms at night, which means someone gained entry through locked doors. Most women would wake up and scream the place down if a stranger started touching them in the middle of the night.

Except you, Lacey, Joesbury was thinking, as he walked to the window. A stranger touching you in the middle of the night is an entirely normal occurrence. Jesus, he needed to be off this case. No, he needed her off this case. He simply could not think straight when … and he was starting to feel like a caged animal in this hotel bedroom. He’d go for a walk except he knew where he’d end up. On the green outside the residential block of St John’s.

Instead, he turned back and looked at the blue file next to his laptop on the narrow hotel desk. He knew exactly who the four women were. Freya Robin, Donna Leather, Jayne Pearson and Danielle Brown. He was starting to recite their names – and those of all the others – in his sleep. He sighed again and went back to the report.

Christ, only Lacey Flint could be attacked by a rabid kestrel, find dead animals hanging from trees and be ordered off private land by a psychotic farmer all in one afternoon. When she finally finished rabbiting on about how she spent her leisure time, she went back to her previous point.

Seems to me there’s a pattern developing. Bad dreams, possible disappearances, recreational drug use, unproven sexual abuse and even rape, then death. I know you said I’m not investigating, Sir, but with the attempted suicides there are potentially twenty-nine cases of something very sinister going on here. Evi won’t give me names, some patient-confidentiality bollocks, but I found a few of them, including Danielle Brown, one of the possible rape victims, in newspaper archives. I know you can get the rest from CID files. It would be really helpful to know who they are. I’ve got plenty of time on my hands here. I can just sit at a computer and go through the facts. See if anything jumps out. I’m good at detail, did I mention that? Another thing that would be really useful is to track down Danielle Brown and go and talk to her. If she tells us her actions were influenced by online pressure, that’s a major step forward, isn’t it? I might just work on that tomorrow.

She wrote in a way she never spoke to him. Much less formal, even friendly. When they were face to face she was always guarded, as though measuring every word that came out of her mouth. Except when she lost her temper. When he’d first got to know her, he’d made a point of winding her up in a way that was completely unprofessional, just to get a reaction out of her that seemed real.