Come A Little Closer Read online

  No matter how many dead bodies he saw, Tom always felt a stab of sorrow that a life had ended, especially when the deceased was so young, and he paused for a moment before pulling a torch from his pocket to flick its beam over the woman. There was no sign of trauma – no blood that he could see – and her hands were placed neatly in her lap with no obvious signs of a struggle. It looked to all the world as if she had wandered in, sat down, closed her eyes and died. There was only one point arguing against that: she wasn’t wearing any shoes.

  Her feet were stretched out in front of her, and Tom could see that the soles were dirty but the tops weren’t. It didn’t look as if she habitually walked outdoors without shoes; the skin appeared too soft for that. She had no bag and was wearing nothing more than a long cardigan over a pair of jeans a couple of sizes too large. Tom wondered if maybe she had lost weight recently – maybe been ill – or whether the clothes belonged to someone else.

  What had happened to this poor woman?

  ‘Boss,’ Becky said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Do you need me to call the Home Office pathologist? I could have a word with the man who found her too?’

  ‘Yes please, that would be good.’ Tom turned his attention back to the dead woman.

  Jumbo was right. There was something wrong here, something that didn’t tally.

  6

  Becky had been glad to make her escape from the hide, ashamed to admit that the sight of the body in the confined space had made her constantly queasy tummy turn over. Although she was sure she wasn’t feeling anywhere near as bad as the poor man she could see just beyond the perimeter of the crime scene, sitting on a log that had been dusted clear of snow.

  She made a quick call, relieved to hear that the pathologist would be with them soon, and inched her way gingerly along the icy path towards the man.

  ‘Mr Denshaw?’

  The man looked up, nodded and started to push himself to his feet. He seemed to be in his early sixties, with a wiry body and a full head of grey hair – which more or less matched the colour of his cheeks.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, pointing at the log as if he shouldn’t have been sitting down. ‘It was a bit of a shock. I thought she was just having a rest, you see. I hunkered down and spoke to her quietly, not wanting to frighten her. She looks such a little thing – in the gloom I thought at first that she was a child.’

  Becky nodded at the log. ‘Sit down again, Mr Denshaw. I’ll join you.’ She lowered herself gingerly onto the smooth surface of the wood.

  Knowing that the local police would already have asked him some questions and noted his responses, Becky decided to let him talk without prompting.

  ‘I come here all the time,’ he said. ‘You can often see kingfishers from this hide, and I worry about them when it’s as cold as this. They’re vulnerable in hard winters, so as soon as I thought I might be able to make it through the snow I came to see how they were getting on.’

  ‘When did you last come to check on them?’ she asked.

  ‘More than a week ago.’ He pulled the satchel looped across his chest to rest on his lap and rummaged inside it, finally pulling out a small notebook. Opening it, he ran his finger down the page. ‘It was ten days ago. I don’t normally leave it that long, but with the weather and everything…’

  His voice trailed off, and Becky got the impression he felt guilty about not visiting as often as he should. She could see something that looked like tinfoil in his satchel. ‘If that’s a sandwich you have in there, you might want to eat it,’ she said. ‘Might make you feel a bit better.’

  Mr Denshaw looked at her and pulled one corner of his mouth down. ‘Not sure I could eat right now,’ he said.

  ‘Do you know any other people who come here?’ Becky asked, trying to move his mind away from the body.

  ‘Not so much to this hide. It’s a bit off the beaten track. Most of the hides are padlocked overnight, but not this one. I suppose that’s how she got in. But how do you think she got here? The place has been cut off for days. Do you think she’s been in there a while?’

  Becky shook her head. ‘It’s hard to say. When it’s this cold—’ She had been about to say that the body didn’t seem to have decomposed much, but thought better of it. ‘I don’t suppose you have the names of other people who come here regularly, do you?’

  ‘No, I only know them to nod to. There are some online forums, though. People often chat on there about what they’ve seen.’

  Becky noted down the web addresses Mr Denshaw gave her and pushed herself up from the log. He looked up at her.

  ‘She wasn’t wearing any shoes. Did you notice that? Of course you did. Sorry. But what do you think happened to her shoes?’

  Becky shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, but at the moment we don’t have any answers. We’re going to need to take a formal statement from you, and I’ll get someone to arrange that. I’ll organise a lift home for you as well.’

  Thanking Mr Denshaw for his help, Becky shook his hand and walked over to Tom, who was talking quietly to Jumbo by the entrance to the hide.

  ‘So what’s up with our victim, then?’ she asked. ‘I can see from your faces that you think she is a victim and not just some young woman who wandered in and died.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘Jumbo’s not entirely happy with the overall picture, and I agree with him. She doesn’t look like a vagrant who decided to shelter overnight in the hide. If that were the case, we might assume she died of hypothermia. But she’s too clean for someone who sleeps rough, so how did she get here? She isn’t wearing a coat, and it’s been too bloody cold to be out without one. Her feet are a bit grubby, but if she had walked here after the snow started she would almost certainly have frostbite. So that suggests she drove here. And yet there’s no abandoned car in the car park.’

  ‘Or she walked through the snow and threw her shoes in the water,’ Becky said.

  Jumbo nodded. ‘Possible, although quite why she would do that I can’t imagine.’

  ‘She has no identification on her,’ Tom continued, ‘and there’s no sign of what might have killed her. The most obvious possibility is an overdose, but there’s no evidence in the hide that she took anything – no debris – pill bottle, blister pack, water, needles.’

  ‘She could have taken a lethal dose and then come – or been brought – here to die,’ Becky suggested. ‘Or she could have died somewhere else and been brought here by a third party – removed from the place of death to avoid incriminating them.’

  Tom nodded. ‘The pathologist might be able to tell us whether she died here, and we’ll have to wait for the post-mortem for the cause of death. Drugs were the first thing that came to mind, but Jumbo pointed out that there is the faintest hint of cyanosis in her face. I know it’s not a sure thing, but that would normally indicate hypoxia. If so, how?’

  Lynsey had joined them as Tom spoke, and Becky could see the confusion in her face.

  ‘Cyanosis is when the skin takes on a bluish colour, which is usually associated with a lack of oxygen, Lynsey,’ Becky explained. ‘This is normally due to being asphyxiated – smothered, strangled, drowned – but she doesn’t look like she’s been in the water, and if she’d been strangled we would expect to see petechial haemorrhaging – small red dots on the skin.’

  At the crunch of footsteps on frozen snow, Jumbo looked up and jerked his head towards the new arrival.

  ‘Here’s someone I suspect might have the answers,’ he said. ‘Amelia Sanders – likes to be called Amy. She’s the new Home Office pathologist for this area, and I think you’ll both like her.’

  Becky turned towards the path. A small, thin woman with cropped black hair was striding towards them.

  ‘You must be DCI Douglas,’ she said to Tom. ‘Amy Sanders.’ She nodded briskly to Becky and Lynsey. ‘Right, Jumbo. Let the dog see the rabbit then.’

  Jumbo stood back to let Amy and Tom go ahead, turning to wink at Becky before he disappeared into the hide.

  7

/>   I think it’s raining outside. I don’t know for sure because I can’t hear it and there are no windows in the room. But the air smells different. There is a mustiness creeping through small gaps under the locked doors and through the air bricks that at least allow me to breathe. I realise how much I have begun to rely on all my senses. Perhaps because for a while they were dulled, damaged, deadened.

  I know the others have finished eating. I can’t hear them because they rarely speak, but the squeak of chair legs against the old linoleum floor tells me they are moving to the sink to wash their pots.

  I’m very careful now about what I put in my mouth. I’m hungry, but tonight’s meal would have been a thin broth, and there is no way to avoid what I know is hidden in there. I wait for the one meal each day that may include a few whole vegetables, and eat nothing that has been mixed with another substance. Even mashed potatoes seem dangerous to me. The others think I’m ill, but they know better than to ask questions or to tell tales.

  I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. I can see no way out – no end in sight that would give me hope. Perhaps the others have got it right – maybe I should give in and be who I’m expected to be, who they tell me I am. But I’m not ready to do that yet.

  Suddenly the silence is pierced by the sound of the buzzer, and I know what this means. I hear the slap, slap of bare feet against lino and the clicks of doors closing as the others obey the rules and return to their rooms. I know my door should be closed too, but it’s slightly ajar. For a moment I consider leaving it open as a gesture of defiance, but that would give my game away. I push myself up and quietly close it. There is a wide gap below the door, and I can hear what is happening. I hear the clunk as the bolts go back on the door at the top of the stairs. A minute later, the door bangs shut, the locks automatically engaging, but then it is silent.

  I know that someone is coming down the stairs and along the corridor, because each night it’s the same. I don’t hear footsteps, because our visitor’s feet are covered in soft slippers that are soundless on the shiny, slippery floor. There is a sliver of light spilling into my room from the gap below the door, and a shadow passes. I think – hope – that perhaps I’m not the chosen one tonight, and I start to relax.

  But I don’t hear another door open, and my heart begins to thump. And then the shadow comes back, the light under the door blocked by two feet, heels together, toes splayed.

  The handle is slowly pressed down, and I know this is my moment. I need to pretend. I need to remember everything I have seen the others do, how they react, from the lethargic lifting of their heads to the time it takes to focus their eyes, and I force my tense limbs to relax. I need to be as floppy as possible, and I half close my eyes, trying not to stare at the doorway and who is about to walk through it.

  The door opens slowly, silently, and I look beyond the figure blocking the light as if I have not quite noticed they are there.

  When the voice comes, I know what the words will be, and I wonder if I can continue to be who I am expected to be. Will I give myself away?

  But I have no time to wonder any more. The words I have been dreading are spoken in a low voice.

  ‘Are you ready, Judith?’

  8

  I’ve been on the boat for five days now, and I’m beginning to feel settled. Thea, the older lady who smiled at me so kindly on the first night, has been keeping an eye on me. She makes sure I’m not left floundering and is adept at changing the subject when she sees that I’m uncomfortable with Donna’s nosiness. We always share a look of understanding as the heat is drawn away from me.

  Paul – or Eagle-Eye, as I’ve come to think of him – is the one person who still bothers me. We all gathered on deck last night for a pre-dinner drink and he was there, talking to Thea. He kept glancing over, and I could see he wanted to speak to me, so it came as no surprise when, after five minutes, he wandered across.

  ‘Have you been on any other interesting holidays recently?’ he asked. His voice was clipped, almost as if he was challenging me.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. I’ve been a bit boring until now. It’s the first trip of this kind that I’ve taken.’

  ‘What about other types of holiday – in the UK, maybe? Lots of women your age seem to like going on retreats – yoga, well-being, that sort of thing. Have you ever done anything like that?’

  His gaze was intense, as if he was trying to catch me in a lie. It felt more like an inquisition than a casual conversation, and Thea must have sensed my discomfort. She was watching me, and I saw her brow furrow for a moment. She strolled over and tapped Paul on the forearm. ‘Paul, I was meaning to ask if you’ve been to China. It would be wonderful to speak to someone who knew something about the country.’

  Paul gave me one final hard look and then turned towards Thea. I was able to relax again.

  I’m hoping I don’t end up alone with him at any point, although I don’t know why he bothers me so much. Maybe I just don’t feel at ease around men right now.

  The rest of the evening passed without event, and I woke this morning to another bright, sunny day. I’m excited that we are off to visit the stupas at Bagan this afternoon – one of the highlights of the trip – and I grab a window seat on the coach, relieved when Thea slips into the place next to me. She’s a tall, slim woman with wonderful bone structure that has lost nothing of its beauty as she has aged. Her long silver hair is swept back into a low ponytail during the day, but in the evening it sits resplendent on her shoulders. Some of the passengers come to dinner in shorts, but Thea always wears something in silk, with modern chunky jewellery at her neck. I can’t help thinking that this is how I would like to look when I’m older – elegant but a bit funky.

  As the coach pulls away from the river, I fiddle with my bag, making sure it’s firmly closed and attached to some part of my body so it can’t be stolen.

  Thea looks at the bag and laughs. ‘Why on earth have you brought that enormous bag with you, dear?’

  ‘I don’t have a pocket big enough for my key,’ I say. I have wondered a couple of times why the management of the boat has chosen to use such a heavy metal ball as a key ring. It weighs a ton.

  She pats me on the leg. ‘There’s no need to bring it with you. We’re stuck with each other for the whole trip, so if anything goes missing the crew will search everyone’s room or call the police.’

  ‘My laptop’s in there, though.’

  ‘A little secret, dear: probably every cabin on board has a laptop or an iPad lurking inside. Except ours, of course. People these days seem compelled to share their every waking moment on a blog or on social media, an obsession I fail to understand.’

  She gives a little shudder, and I want to ask if she and the doctor have any children. I know people of Thea’s age often use Facebook to keep in touch with their kids. But for some reason it seems intrusive to enquire.

  ‘Can I ask if there’s something worrying you, dear?’ she asks in a hushed voice.

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ I answer, but even I can hear the lie in my voice.

  ‘I don’t mean to pry, but I’ve noticed that sometimes your eyes glaze over as if you’re thinking of something or someone else. And I get the feeling they’re not good thoughts. Am I right?’

  What do I say? Do I tell her that each time the boat picks up an Internet signal I get another stream of emails? I had managed to convince myself after the first one that I could resist looking, but in the middle of last night when I couldn’t sleep I knew it wasn’t going to work. I had to find out what Ian had to say, what he’s threatening, what he’s planning for my return. I only read one message, but it was enough.

  I’ve had a great idea! I know it irritates you when I play games on the telly and it stops you from watching those crap American dramas that you appear to enjoy for some reason, so when I saw there was an offer on TVs I decided to shift things round in the spare room and make it into my man den. I’ve applied for interest-free credit on the telly, so i
t should all be sorted by the time you’re back.

  He’s ignoring everything I said before I came on holiday. He thinks he has me beaten and if he pretends it never happened, I will give in.

  ‘It’s just man trouble,’ I tell Thea.

  ‘Ah. That can be the worst, because logic may say one thing while emotion says another. Do you love him?’

  And to think I considered it intrusive to ask her about children! There is something compelling about her voice, though, and maybe it is the extra couple of glasses of wine I had with lunch, but I find myself almost eager to unburden myself.

  ‘I have a boyfriend. Or had. I don’t love him, but I did rely on him when I was going through a bad time.’

  I don’t want to admit that I made such a terrible choice of partner, but I find myself blurting out the whole story, the words tumbling from my lips unrestrained. I know I’m going to regret this later, but I don’t seem able to stop.

  ‘The house we live in is mine – well, mine and the building society’s, I suppose. My grandfather gave me some money – an advance on my inheritance, he called it. I have a job which I love, but since moving to Manchester my boyfriend hasn’t managed to find anything that suits someone of his calibre.’ I try, and fail, to keep the sarcastic tone from my voice. ‘He just sits around drinking and listening to music all day.’

  ‘You mean he lives off you,’ Thea says, tucking her chin into her chest and raising her eyebrows as if to underline my naivety.

  ‘I suppose so. Before I came away I told him that we’re finished, but he won’t accept it. I can’t stay with him. And I think he’s lost it completely.’