A Death in the Woods Read online

  ‘Knock knock.’ Mary barged in. Made the room brighter just by entering it. ‘You’ve started packing up. That’s a good sign. Or is it?’

  The room was lined with cardboard boxes.

  ‘It’s slow going. Mum kept everything from when I lived here.’

  ‘You live here now.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Jess was stung. ‘I’m staying here. Between homes. Just until we finish the barn.’ She ignored Mary’s ironic pout at the ‘we’.

  ‘D’you fancy an adventure? It’s me night off.’ Mary had a new job at the Druid’s Head, a noisy hangout on Cheap Street. She found jobs with the same ease she found men and discarded them with the same alacrity. ‘Let’s feck off outa here and do something phenomenally irresponsible.’

  ‘Can’t.’ Jess was apologetic. ‘I have a ton of prep to do for tomorrow.’

  Thwarted, Mary sighed. ‘Ah, academia calls. It seems to be going well, this new university gig of yours.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘No need to sound surprised. Sometimes things work out.’ Mary stretched. ‘I might whistle up some fella. Wakes always turn me juicy.’

  ‘Everything,’ said Jess, ‘turns you juicy.’

  ‘True.’ Mary was a sexual buccaneer.

  Jess’s phone chirped from the chest of drawers. Mary picked it up and read the screen. ‘Uh oh. Eden.’

  ‘Eden?’ Jess took it greedily. Put it to her ear. ‘Hi . . . yeah . . . what, right now? . . . I can be there in ten minutes, bye.’

  ‘Tell,’ ordered Mary.

  Jess touched her brown hair, chivvying it to no effect. She was anti-hairbrush. She bared her small strong teeth in the mirror and checked her brown eyes for grit. This was as far as her toilette ever went. ‘He said . . .’ Jess savoured it for a second. ‘He said he needs me.’

  ‘Jaysus, Mary and Joseph.’ Mary tailed her down the stairs. ‘Here we go again.’

  Yes, thought Jess, walking on air, here we go again!

  On the doorstep, winding a scarf around her, she stopped short. She had almost trodden on it, whatever it was. She bent down. Recoiled.

  ‘A heart,’ she whispered. A tiny one, shiny with gore. ‘Oh God, from some poor little dormouse or something.’

  Mary bent too. ‘It’s still steaming,’ she said. ‘It’s fresh.’

  They looked at each other, then out at the darkness beyond the porch light. All Hallows Day was black, and still. Something had reached out from the night and left them this gift.

  CHAPTER 2

  WEST OF BASINGSTOKE

  Still Sunday 1 November

  While Castle Kidbury pottered through its Sunday, the incident room of its police station was awash with energy.

  Feet on desks. Paper aeroplanes. The dreaded banter. Beside the door stood DC Karen Knott. Small, dark, with eyes like apple pips, she wore a nondescript suit of non-natural fibres. She clocked Jess creeping in and standing at the back. Her lips thinned; she did not approve of the woman she saw as her boss’s pet expert.

  Jess drank in the buzz. Admitted how much she missed it. Once you’ve caught a killer, it’s a hit you crave again. No matter how ashamed that makes you feel about yourself. One thing was certain: This beats the atmosphere in the Ancient History and Pagan Studies department at Bristol University.

  ‘Oi, Karen,’ shouted one of the men with his sleeves rolled up. ‘When’s Sarge getting here?’

  A ginger-haired officer answered for her. ‘When he’s finished hoovering his Ford Focus.’

  This went down well in the room.

  ‘Or maybe he’s counting his paperclips,’ suggested Sleeves-Rolled-Up.

  Outside the door, DS John Eden hesitated. He had been neither hoovering nor counting stationery; he’d been preparing to brief his men with the same quiet diligence he brought to everything. He waited until the guffaws died down; cops were an easy audience for jokersters, particularly when they were on the brink of something big.

  ‘Afternoon, everyone.’ Eden made his way briskly to the front of the room as his team sat up straight, the mirth mumbling into silence.

  Roughly five foot eleven, man-shaped with mid-brown hair, Eden wasn’t instantly memorable. Jacketless, his tie was slightly undone. Everyone at Castle Kidbury nick knew the undone tie meant sir wasn’t in the mood for fun.

  ‘Knott, do we have a positive ID yet?’ Eden didn’t turn to face her. Businesslike. Procedure-led. A man infamous for his mistrust of hunches.

  ‘Not yet, Sarge, but we know it’s Denis Heap.’

  ‘Yes, I know we know it’s Denis Heap, but we can’t knock on Mrs Heap’s door and say her husband’s probably dead.’

  Knott was hard to admonish; she smiled as she agreed with him. ‘That’d be silly, Sarge.’

  ‘So, you’re going to call forensics again and tell them I want a positive ID before five o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’ Knott stood fixed to the floor.

  ‘Are you going to do it now, Karen?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’ Knott dithered energetically before exiting the room with a self-righteous flourish. Nothing pleased Karen Knott more than pleasing her boss.

  Eden gathered himself; Knott had the knack of putting him off his stride. ‘Right, let’s get up to speed. What we’ve got is—’ He paused. ‘Moretti,’ he said, peremptorily. ‘Sit properly and keep still.’

  Jess stood on tiptoes. Moretti was new. He was cocky, too, leaning back on his chair so its front legs were off the ground. That would irritate Eden, she knew, almost as much as the overgroomed hair and the pointed shoes. Another thing she knew about Eden was that he never let his irritation show around his men. This murder has him rattled.

  ‘What we’ve got is not much more than what we had this morning. Denis Heap, owner of The Buttonhole florist’s, was found tied to a chair at Yonder Street Jolly Cook with a fractured skull, his hands nailed to a table, and his intestines missing.’

  Jess squinted at the pictures pinned to the wall behind Eden, grateful she couldn’t make out the detail.

  ‘The killer buttonholed him, Sarge,’ said the ginger-haired officer.

  ‘What we’ve also got,’ said Eden, over laughter, ‘is a small West Country market town with another murderer. God knows why, but Castle Kidbury has become the most dangerous place west of Basingstoke. DI Philllips expects speedy results.’

  Doesn’t he always? Jess had first-hand experience of how Eden’s superior prioritised PR above justice.

  ‘I’m never eating at a Jolly Cook again,’ said some wag.

  ‘You’ve actually eaten at one?’ Ginger Hair was incredulous. ‘No one eats at those dumps anymore.’

  Moretti turned in his seat to defend the diners. Jess noticed how even his features were; how estate agent-like. ‘Come on, mate, every kid in the South West grew up with Jolly Cook. It’s a rite of passage, sitting in the back of your mum and dad’s car, all excited to be going for a burger,’ he said.

  Sleeves-Rolled-Up said, ‘They’re going all upmarket. That chef, what’s his name, Nic Lasco, is revamping the menu.’ He brightened. ‘Hey, we might get on telly!’

  ‘This is a murder enquiry, not Come Dine with Me,’ said Eden. ‘As the contents of Heap’s stomach are, um, elsewhere, we have to wait until his saliva is analysed before we know whether the victim or the killer ate the meal. It looks like it was cooked on the premises.’

  ‘What was the meal?’ asked Moretti.

  ‘Full English,’ said Eden.

  ‘I love a full English,’ said Sleeves-Rolled-Up.

  Eden read from his notes. ‘Fried egg, bacon, sausage and beans.’

  Knott had slipped back into the room. ‘It’s not a full English,’ she said, in an I-beg-to-differ voice, ‘unless a fried tomato is present.’

  ‘Gotta have black pudding,’ said someone at the back.

  Eden looked at his phone. Raised his hand to stop the debate. ‘HMP Wessex has confirmed that Steven Norris was released yesterday.’

  There was a fri
sson in the room. Jess could smell the change; every police ear was pricked.

  ‘Yeah, the timing is suspicious. We’re bringing him in as we speak. He’s gone back to his mother, back to the Bamview Estate.’

  Sleeves-Rolled-Up raised an arm. ‘Didn’t the victim testify at Norris’s trial, Sarge?’

  ‘Alleged victim, yes, he did. According to Judge Castle, who put Norris away for four years, it was Heap’s testimony that convinced the jury.’

  Jess gave a little start at her father’s name.

  Eden carried on. ‘Judge Castle needs to be warned that Norris is out. Especially if he’s settling scores. It goes without saying that all of this is ringfenced. Not a word to the press. Not even the Echo. Paul Chappell got far too excited about the crucifixions in June. So, any ideas?’ Eden looked at the rows of faces.

  Moretti’s hand shot up.

  There was reluctance in Eden’s nod.

  ‘The lollipop, sir. The one between Heap’s hands. It feels important. Jolly Cook used to give them out if you were a good boy and finished your meal. And, well . . .’

  ‘Heap finished his meal,’ said Eden, thoughtfully.

  Right behind Knott was a much-enlarged photograph of a translucent red globe wrapped in cellophane on a white cardboard stick. Its innocent colouring was incongruous among the utilitarian décor. And malevolent.

  ‘Moretti, reach out to the executives at Jolly Cook,’ said Eden. ‘We’ll need to work closely with them. For starters, ask if they still hand out lollipops to kids.’ Eden turned to Knott. ‘Have you rounded up all the photos taken by guests at the party?’ One of the last things Denis Heap had done on this earth was throw a Halloween party at Jolly Cook for his young son.

  ‘Just looking through them now, Sarge.’ Head cocked, Knott scrolled through the pictures on an iPad. ‘Aw, bless ‘em. I love to see kiddies enjoying themselves.’

  Eden managed not to comment. Instead he looked out at his audience and found Jess. ‘I’ve invited Dr Castle in. Jess, come up.’

  Another frisson from the officers. Not unfriendly, but less than a welcome. Jess stood, knowing she was a blot on their tidy procedural landscape, with her left-field intuition. Somebody said, ‘It’s the prof!’

  ‘Halloween, Dr Castle,’ said Eden. ‘If the date’s important to our killer, what do we need to know?’

  Jess thought fast. She had to keep it snappy. But she had to keep it thorough. ‘Halloween has enormous significance. It’s the pagan highlight of the year. It’s the time when the boundary between us and the dead falls away. All Hallows is a turning point, when people assess their lives, make inventories of what they have, hoping it’s enough to get them through the dark months.’

  ‘Cheerful,’ said a voice.

  ‘And the full moon?’ asked Eden.

  Nobody scoffed at this seemingly fanciful question; back in the summer Jess’s knowledge of moon lore had been vital to cracking the only other murders Castle Kidbury had ever witnessed. ‘Full moons matter to covens. As does Halloween. So, a Halloween on a full moon, that’s the jackpot. Witches celebrate Esbat at the full moon, which is like a party, quite a rowdy one, but which is also dedicated to intimate sorcery.’

  ‘Like, killing an enemy?’ asked Moretti.

  ‘Yup. Full moons were meaningful to our ancestors. A love affair started on a full moon would go well, but if you had a fight on the full moon . . .’

  ‘You might end up killing each other,’ said Ginger Hair. He was smirking.

  Jess didn’t much like Ginger Hair.

  ***

  The chair was uncomfortable, too low and covered in squeaky leatherette. But it was one of Jess’s Happy Places. She had missed the police station video-feed room, even if she was slightly resentful at being relegated to the sub’s bench.

  On a large screen she and Moretti – he was a Pete, but Jess followed the house rule of referring to him by surname – watched as Eden entered the interview room down the hall. It was unsettling to hear the thunk of the door closing in real time, then hear it a millisecond later on the grainy screen.

  ‘Thank you for coming in, Mr Norris,’ he began.

  Moretti looked slyly at Jess. She smiled back. There was no more polite interviewer than Eden. She held out a bag of Twiglets and Moretti demurred.

  ‘This shouldn’t take too long.’ Eden was shuffling papers. Clearing his throat.

  Psyching out the pit bull on the other side of the table, thought Jess. During the spate of summer crucifixions, which had blossomed like plague spots all across town, Jess had watched Eden’s handiwork up close. She’d been toe to toe with the murderers.

  I still have misgivings about that.

  A heartbreaking motive had been involved; the investigation was a baptism of fire for Jess. Now she watched the prime suspect and wondered what they would find when they delved into that big bald head.

  Norris could have come straight from central casting. Shaved head on a thick neck. England shirt. From what Jess could make out, his arms were heavily tattooed. Even observing him from a different room, Jess felt far too close.

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’ Moretti leaned forward.

  Norris had unwrapped a round, glassy-looking lollipop. Just like the ones given out at Jolly Cook.

  Eden pressed a button on the tape machine. ‘DS John Eden. Interview with Steven Glen Norris at Castle Kidbury station, November the first at seven minutes past eight p.m.’

  Norris was impassive.

  ‘You seem at home, Steven,’ said Eden.

  ‘How would you know?’ Norris spoke with a local rasp. ‘You ain’t never met me before.’

  ‘True enough. But I know plenty about you.’

  ‘And I know about you, Sergeant.’

  ‘Perfect. We’ll be like old friends.’ Eden was equable. ‘You must agree you’re in an awkward situation, Steven. Your first night out after four years in prison, and Denis Heap is found dead.’

  On cue, a deep rolling rumble broke over the roof of the police station.

  ‘Sounds like a storm,’ said Eden. Conversational.

  ‘Sounds like tordon,’ said Norris, sitting back.

  Whereas Jess sat up. ‘That’s the Norse word for thunder.’

  Moretti opened a can of Coke. ‘He fancies himself an intellectual. IQ of 140, plus an anti-social personality disorder to boot.’

  ‘A smarty pants pscyho. Just what every small town needs.’

  Moretti laughed. ‘He studied mythology in the nick.’

  So that’s why Eden wants me here. Jess quickened. She was on sure ground around the old gods.

  Norris pulled out a silver chain from the neck of his England shirt. ‘That’s how thunder’s made. With a hammer.’ He dangled the pendant, a stylised hammer. ‘That’s Thor we’re hearing. Beating the clouds.’

  ‘I’m not here to talk about Thor or any other Marvel characters.’ Perhaps Norris’s affronted expression was what Eden wanted. ‘Can you account for your whereabouts last night after seven p.m., and before five a.m. this morning?’

  ‘My first night of freedom in four years,’ said Norris. He leered. It came easily to his blunt features. He pointed the red lollipop, sticky with saliva, at Eden. ‘What do you think I was up to?’

  ‘I think you might have murdered Denis Heap.’

  ‘Heap?’ Norris scratched an earlobe. ‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer fella. But I didn’t do it.’

  ‘In that case, you’ll have no problem telling me where you were.’

  In the video-feed room, Moretti took a slug of Coke, his Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘How can the sarge be so patient?’ He crushed the can between his hands.

  ‘It’s his superpower,’ said Jess.

  Eden asked, not looking up from his notes, ‘What’s with the lollipop, Norris? Been a good boy and cleaned your plate?’

  ‘I’m always a good boy.’

  ‘I might ask your mum about that. I assume you’ve gone home to Mummy? You generally do.’ Eden turn
ed and called ‘Knott!’ before saying to Norris, ‘You’re not allowed your own foodstuffs in here. Karen, take that sweetie from Mr Norris, would you?’

  Knott had materialised as if she was waiting outside the door. Which she probably was. With great distaste she took the sticky lolly.

  ‘No secret sucking on that, darlin’,’ said Norris.

  Knott’s nose turned up so far it almost touched her fringe. ‘Disgusting!’ she said.

  ‘Quite,’ said Eden. ‘Given your offending history, Norris, you should watch how you speak to women.’

  Norris watched Knott stomp out, on her sensible shoes, perfect for such stomping. He said, ‘I gave up fags on the inside. The lollipops are my substitute. I like a bit of sugar.’

  ‘Back to last night. I’m waiting.’ Eden held his pen over a blank page.

  ‘Does it matter what I say? You want me for this. You and your cop pals and your judge pals. You’re all corrupt.’ Norris took a breath, and said, as if declaiming poetry, ‘We live in a sword age, a wind age, a wolf age. No longer is there mercy among men.’

  In the other room, Jess got to her feet. ‘Hang on, that’s The Edda!’

  ‘The what-now?’ Moretti watched her swing out of the door.

  ‘For the record, Doctor Jessica Castle has entered the room,’ said Eden. He didn’t seem pleased.

  Jess grabbed a seat and said, ‘Wolf-time, wind-time, axe-time, sword-time, shields-high-time.’

  Norris remained impassive, but something glinted in his sour eyes. ‘You know the Edda?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve never met anybody else who does,’ replied Jess. It was exhilarating, in its way, to come across somebody who could quote a thirteenth-century poem about the Viking gods. Even if that somebody radiated ill will like a patio heater from Hell. ‘You’re a Thor superfan, are you?’ She sensed Eden back down; she had the reins. She might be able to provoke Norris into dropping that conceited front. ‘Little hammer around your neck?’

  ‘Hardly a little hammer, darlin’.’ Norris patted the pendant. ‘This is Mjolnir. The world was nearly destroyed when this was made, it gives Thor his power.’