Black Wood (27 page)

I was scared of what I was going to find.

Sitting at the kitchen table, I picked the one on the top of the pile, flipped it open.

Me and my mum sitting under a tree covered with bright-green leaves and red, perfectly round apples. We’re grinning; Mum’s holding a book. In the background is a dark figure, mouth set in a straight line, eyebrows jagged like the sharp chevrons on a blind bend.

I shuddered, snapping the book shut. I remembered drawing it. A fantasy image of a happy time with my mum … overshadowed by the dark, scowling face of my dad as he watched on. I opened the book again and flicked through. It was full of variations on the same theme. Me and Mum in the kitchen baking cakes, Dad throwing us daggers from by the fire; me and Mum in the car, singing – the sounds depicted by my little shaky scribbles of musical notes – Dad in the back seat, hands over his ears, eyes clamped shut, drowning us out. When I flicked to the final pages, all of the drawings had been scribbled over in thick black marker pen, obscuring what was once there: the thoughts I’d had as a child.

I remembered doing that too, after it happened. Trying to hide the evidence of my bad thoughts that I was so sure had got my mum killed.

It was the summer after Claire had finally come out of hospital. The police turned up while we were eating our tea – rabbit stew, freshly prepared from the day’s catch. I’d been allowed to shoot one of them myself, and my arm still ached from the recoil of the gun. I’d opened the door to the tall man in uniform and immediately been sent upstairs to my room. I hadn’t gone there, though – I sat at the top of the stairs, just out of sight, as the policeman spoke to my gran in a low, sad voice. Silent tears streamed down my face.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs Thompson, but your daughter and son-in-law have been fatally injured in an accident …’

‘How did it happen? Was he drunk?’ My gran’s voice sounded harsh and I imagined the policeman looking at his colleague, raising his eyebrows.

‘We don’t know that yet, I’m afraid. All we know is that your son-in-law appears to have lost control of the car on a sharp bend, colliding with a tree—’

‘Did she have her seatbelt on?’

‘Mrs Thompson …’

‘Did she? Just tell me, officer. I’m not a child. I’m not about to pass out from the shock. That man … I’ve been expecting something like this to happen …’ She slammed a fist on the table and I felt myself flinch. ‘That poor bloody child.’

‘We’ll send someone round to see you in the morning, Mrs Thompson. We’ll need a formal identification, but it can wait … Maybe you can tell us more about your son-in-law then, when it’s sunk in a bit …’

She started crying once they’d gone, and I’d tiptoed along the hall to my room, trying hard not to make a sound. I heard my mum’s voice as I drifted off to sleep … 
I’ll always love you, Jo
 … 
Remember that
 … 
whatever happens.

I only went back home once after that, to pack up the rest of my clothes and my paltry collection of books and games. Gran had arranged for someone to go in and sort out all of Mum and Dad’s stuff, which I was glad about. I didn’t want to see it. It hurt my chest when I thought about them too much. They were a lot of things, but they were still my parents.

I took another book from the pile, opening it at a random page.

Gran in a filthy dress, arms streaked with mud. In the background are dark trees, their branches seeming to reach for her. A bright yellow moon shines down on a small mound of earth behind her – and in the distance, a small stick-like figure of a boy.

Fear trickled over me like ice, and suddenly it all made sense. The conversation with Maloney … The vision I’d had when I’d first come back to the cottage. The piece of paper I’d taken from Maloney’s bureau, full of seemingly random numbers and letters.

They weren’t random at all. It was a set of directions to the grave.

Claire watched Gareth as he disappeared out onto the High Street. He was soon out of sight. She felt sick.

‘Why the hell did you give him Jo’s number?’

The colour slid from Craig’s face, leaving just two angry pink spots on his cheeks. ‘We need to put an end to this, Claire. Sounds to me like he does know her. Maybe it’s about time she found a new friend.’

‘Why, though? Craig – it doesn’t make sense. She’s so sure it’s him. You only met him a few days ago. You don’t even know who he is. What if she’s right? What if he’s dangerous?’

Craig started typing numbers into his phone. ‘Don’t be so dramatic, Claire. That’s Jo’s job. Anyway, I do know who he is. I recognised him when he came in the second time. It didn’t click at first, what with the name he uses now. It threw me … He lived here years ago. Moved away when we were barely teenagers. He’s that boy whose dad went missing. That bloke who worked up at the farm-machinery place …’

‘The place where Jake works?’

‘Yeah, that’s it …’ Craig let the sentence trail off, scratched his head. ‘You know what, Claire? Jake knows him. Christ, it’s coming back to me now … You should ask him about—’

Claire cut him off. ‘Oh God, Craig … Jo told me something awful about that man who went missing. I thought she was making it up. Michael Waters. That was his name. She said he had a son. Maybe two. You don’t think that this Maloney …’ She let her sentence tail off. Her head was spinning. She took her phone out of her bag. Her hands were shaking so much she could barely hit the keys. She hit Jake’s speed dial and it went straight to voicemail.

‘Oh shit,’ Craig muttered, as if trying not to react to her panic, ‘I’m going to call Gray. Tell him what’s happened. Tell him to go and find her. She might not have been there last night, but where else could she go? She needs help. She must be heading to Black Wood. I’ll get Gray to go up there and get her. Maybe by then she’ll have had a message from Maloney … He can give her the watch. Get her to explain what the fuck she was doing in his house … If it
was
her. Leave Gray to sort it all out, eh? He seemed OK. It’s not like he’s going to hurt her or anything …’

Claire shook her head. She couldn’t believe what was happening. ‘Have you lost your bloody mind?’

‘I’m sorry, Claire. I am. I just wanted to get her out of my hair. But what you said about Michael Waters … I’m worried now.’

He was about to hit ‘call’ when the door opened again. Neither of them had noticed Sharon passing the window.

‘
Jeeesus
. I had to duck up round the Back Street to avoid Bridie. She was waiting for me outside the paper shop. Did you know her granddaughter got attacked last night?’

Claire and Craig exchanged glances. ‘Really?’ Claire said, trying to hide her panic. ‘What happened?’

‘Stupid cow decided to take a short cut on her way back from karate … he jumped her round the back of Tesco’s. She fought him off, but she’s in a bad way.’

Claire thought back to the advert. If Gray hadn’t arranged that last-minute self-defence class, she wouldn’t have been out on her own … but then … wasn’t this nutter meant to be hanging out up at the Track? The previous two had been in broad daylight, and he hadn’t actually
done
anything …

She made a decision. ‘Craig, can we go please? We can make that call on the way …’

Craig nodded. ‘Is someone coming to meet you, Sharon? I don’t want you walking home on your own tonight. I can come back if you like? Or maybe we should just close now …’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Sharon said. ‘Another half an hour’s not going to make any difference. It’s still daylight. Besides, I’m not a stupid wee schoolgirl, am I? I’ll be fine. You two go wherever it is you’re going. Have fun.’

‘Right, OK. But if you change your mind, call me – OK?’

‘Bye,’ Claire muttered. She was worried sick about Jo.
Have fun?
How could Sharon be so oblivious to her and Craig’s distress?

Craig pushed her out of the shop, and as soon as they were out of Sharon’s earshot, she said, ‘Please. Call Davie. Before it’s too late.’

Craig took out his phone, called up the last number he’d typed in, hit the call button.

It went straight to answerphone.

‘Sergeant Gray? It’s Craig. I’m here with Claire. Listen – we’re worried about Jo. We know she’s been up at Gareth Maloney’s house, and now …’ He paused, raised his eyebrows at Claire, who nodded back at him. ‘… we think she might be at Black Wood. She’s not answering her phone. I don’t know if you’re still at the station or what, but … we need to speak to you urgently, OK? If you get this, please call me back. Otherwise we’ll see you soon. We’re on our way to the station right now.’

Claire had turned her head to look up at him as he spoke into the phone. His voice was wavering. He was scared too. She watched him slide the phone back into his pocket.

‘Right, tell you what. Let me call Rob. He’ll be able to fit your chair in his car. We’ll tell him to meet us at the station, then get him to drive us up to Black Wood, OK?’

‘OK,’ Claire said. Things had started to swarm inside her head. Too much going on. This was what usually caused the blackouts – the last thing she needed right now. ‘OK … but hurry!’

Gray sat and looked at the man in front of him, confused about what he was seeing. Only a week ago, he’d seen Scott jogging along the river path when he’d been out there for a Sunday morning stroll. The younger man had looked fresh, pink-cheeked and sweaty. He’d panted out a hello to Gray as he’d passed. Gray had admired his efforts. It was a hot, clammy morning and a walk was as much exercise as Gray could bear under those conditions.

The man in front of him now was like an artist’s impression of himself. Aged by twenty years and dressed in clothing befitting a tramp.

If you’d asked him a week ago, Gray would’ve placed Scott and Jo on the ‘potential summer wedding, nothing too fancy’ list. Now Jo was AWOL and her bloke looked like he’d spent a week living in the cellar of the Rowan Tree with nothing but the clothes on his back and a few kegs for company.

Even his eyes were pink and watery, as if he’d barely seen daylight. The right one was florid with purple bruising, a small red cut underneath.

‘Right, son. Let’s get this over with.’ Gray nodded at Beattie, who switched on the tape recorder. ‘Scott Philips, thanks for agreeing to be interviewed. Before we start I must remind you that you’re not under arrest, you are entitled to free legal advice and a solicitor can be called for you, and that you’re free to leave at any time. You don’t have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you don’t mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence. Do you understand the caution?’

‘Yes … and I don’t need a lawyer.’ Scott’s voice was thick, as if he’d stuffed a scarf down his throat. His eyes were directed towards the wooden table where his elbows rested.

Gray and Beattie looked at each other. Beattie raised his eyebrows and Gray shrugged back. ‘Present at this interview are Sergeant Davie Gray and PC Callum Beattie. Time is 17.05. In order for us to verify your statement, this interview is being recorded. OK?’

Scott’s shoulders flinched.

‘Is that a yes, Scott?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right,’ Gray started, ‘you know why you’re here, don’t you?’

‘It’s not mine.’

‘Are you referring to the balaclava? For the benefit of the tape, this is a black, nylon-mix balaclava, recovered from the suspect’s laundry basket by a Miss Laura Goldstone, who was staying with her grandmother, Mrs Bridie Goldstone, in the property next door to the suspect, at the time.’

Scott eventually lifted his head. He glared at Gray, and Gray felt disappointed.

‘It’s. Not. Mine,’ he repeated.

Beattie shifted in his seat. Gray changed tack.

‘You know that Laura was attacked, don’t you? Someone gave her quite a fright. Lucky she was able to fight him off. Managed a swift punch to the side of his face, by all accounts. Want to tell us how you got that cut below your eye?’

Beattie cut in: ‘For the benefit of the tape, suspect has a three-centimetre gash just below his right eye. The injury looks fresh, and has not been professionally cleaned and dressed.’

Similar to its owner
, Gray thought, a bit nastily. It was unusual to see Scott dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a stained T-shirt when he was usually in a suit. Maybe a cheap Topman suit, but a suit nonetheless.

Scott sighed, looked away. ‘I told you. I can’t remember.’

‘You’ve a cut like that and you don’t know how you got it? Looks tender. There must’ve been a time when you didn’t have a cut, a moment you realised you had it – can you not work out what happened in the time between?’

‘I was drunk, all right? I’ve been drinking for … a few days now.’

Gray nodded, lowered his voice. ‘I can see that, Scott. Maybe you’d like to tell us what it is that’s troubling you?’

Scott looked at him. Blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. ‘Nothing. It’s nothing. Look, I was a bit worse for wear last night. I was in the pub. I think I might’ve tripped or something.’

‘Which pub?’

‘The Rowan Tree.’

‘Can anyone vouch for you? Anyone see you leave? What time?’

Scott nodded. ‘The barman, he’ll remember. I was pissed. He told someone to walk me home.’

Gray and Beattie exchanged a look.

‘Who was that then, Scott?’

Scott frowned, fidgeted his hands in front of him. ‘Claire’s boyfriend,’ he said. ‘Jake. He took me home. I think he must’ve given me more drink, though, cos I woke up on the kitchen floor, sick all over myself. I’d only just cleaned it and gone upstairs when Laura came in to get the washing.’

‘Where did you put the dirty clothes? In the wash basket? Laura didn’t mention that anything smelled of puke.’

‘No. I put them straight in the machine. They’ll still be there. Reeking, no doubt. Thinking about it, I don’t think I’ve put anything in the laundry basket for days.’

‘So the black fleece that Laura pulled out … the balaclava … are you saying you didn’t put them there?’

‘Aye. That’s exactly what I’m saying.’