Trafficked, p.13
Trafficked, page 13
‘You look pensive,’ Rachel comments, as we exit the car.
I smile at her. ‘Sorry, I was just thinking about the detective in charge of Aurélie’s case; we didn’t exactly hit it off.’
‘Oh well, you can’t expect everyone to fall in love with you, Emma, even if most of us do.’
She links her arm through mine, and drags me towards a gap in the low wooden barrier leading into the dense and dark forest. There is a sudden chill that bites at my bare arms, causing goosebumps to prickle my skin.
‘You all right?’ Rachel asks.
It must be the prospect that these very woods – though it is less likely – could have been Aurélie’s prison for so many years. I get a similar feeling whenever I pass by an actual prison; it’s like a thousand lost years call out their remorseful song.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I tell her, tightening my grip on her arm as fallen twigs and leaves crackle beneath our feet.
It hasn’t rained on the south coast for the best part of two weeks, and the early summer heat is showing no signs of dissipating, yet still the chill remains in the air. The trees are like bony arms stretching high above our heads, the branches interlocking like fingers to keep their treasure out of sight. Looking up, the sky is but a few snatches of light where the foliage allows the occasional gap. The ground is uneven, and although it feels like we are walking on some kind of path, in truth it is a route pocked with trees to the left, right and middle. The pathway isn’t marked out, and so I would imagine the ground here has been worn by a deluge of dog walkers and bird-spotters down the years.
We move further into the forest’s tight grip, and I’m now regretting ever suggesting we come on this search. Looking back over my shoulder, I can no longer see where we first entered, as if somehow the trees have moved to form a barrier around us, from which we will never escape. Rachel doesn’t appear to be affected by the eeriness, striding onwards, tugging me with her. The woods didn’t seem all that large on the map on my phone, but now that we’re here there’s no let-up in sight. No wonder Aurélie found it so difficult to describe where she’d come from. I’ve only been in these woods for five minutes, and I already feel lightheaded and disoriented.
The path is now gradually declining, and the loose twigs and branches beneath our feet slip against the dry earth, making it difficult for our shoes to grip. Again, maybe I was being naïve to assume that the area marked out in green on the app wouldn’t be level, but I can see now that the belly of the forest is much lower ground than where we entered. Turning to look back over my shoulder again, it is only now I can see just how far we’ve already dipped.
‘Can you hear that splashing sound?’ Rachel asks now, and in truth I can’t hear anything over my rapidly beating heart.
She doesn’t wait for me to respond, instead pulling me in the direction of whatever she’s heard, even as I try to plant my feet and slow our descent; I just want to head back to the car, and I can’t explain why.
‘Listen, do you hear it?’ Rachel asks, pausing for a moment.
I stop and try to concentrate on any sound that isn’t the drumming in my chest. She’s right, there is the distant sound of splashing water, though it isn’t obvious what is causing the disturbance.
‘Come on,’ Rachel declares excitedly, hauling me onwards once more.
I’m trying to keep my bearings so that we’ll be able to find our way back to the car park when we’re done, but we’ve now left the well-trodden path and have to duck beneath low branches, and avoid stinging nettles as we duck and dive. I wish I’d left a trail of breadcrumbs, and I can’t ignore the feeling that we are Hansel and Gretel, about to encounter some horrible monster.
Rachel holds her arm out and stops me as the trees suddenly open before us, and I find we’re standing on a manmade wooden pontoon that surrounds a large expanse of water. Beyond the lake the forest’s tight grip prevents us from seeing what lies beyond the trees.
‘Did you know there was a lake here too?’ Rachel asks, scanning the horizon.
Unlocking my phone I check the map again, but I have lost mobile signal, and the map won’t allow me to zoom in for further detail. ‘No, I didn’t,’ I reply, grateful that the sun’s rays are warming my skin here. ‘Looks like it’s a lake for fishing,’ I add, nodding towards a placard to our left, which dictates the rules to be followed by those wishing to fish here.
‘Well, you certainly wouldn’t want to swim in it,’ Rachel comments, turning her nose up at the grey-green colour of the water, and the noticeable pong now emanating from it.
It’s no wonder there is nobody fishing here; I don’t think I’d want to eat anything that emerged from such a bog. That said, it doesn’t appear to have put off the local wildlife, as a seagull swoops down and scoops something into its mouth before soaring away. The same splashing noise we heard earlier accompanies it.
‘Let’s follow the pontoon around the lake for a bit,’ Rachel suggests, setting off still heading away from where we parked her car.
The presence of the lake, and the probability that this place was once swarming with fishermen and fisherwomen, makes it even less likely to be the location of the underground prison, and my fear subsides as we continue along the pontoon. The trees to our left form an insurmountable fence, the network of branches intertwining in a deliberate way to keep unwanted guests out. But then we come to a break in the trees. There is evidence that this hole has been deliberately made, as there is evidence of sawn branches, though the cuts are years old.
Rachel doesn’t think twice before driving us through the gap, and back into the woods. ‘Sorry,’ she tells me, ‘I couldn’t stand the smell any longer.’
The warmth instantly leaves us as we go in search of the well-trodden path once more, but it must have twisted off in a different direction, as we are now stuck ducking and diving again.
We both spot the roof of the shack at the same time, and we freeze.
‘You can see that too, right?’ Rachel asks, a small puff of condensation escaping her lips.
‘Probably just a small hut for birdwatchers,’ I suggest, not believing a single word.
‘Only one way to find out,’ Rachel says, pulling me closer, but this time I really plant my feet.
There was no mention of a nearby lake in the statement Aurélie gave to the police, or to her parents as far as I’m aware, so there is every reason this isn’t what we were looking for. And yet…
‘We should probably phone DS Cavendish,’ I say cautiously. ‘If this is—’
‘We don’t know what this is,’ she interrupts. ‘You said yourself that she isn’t your biggest fan; how’s she going to react if you drag her out on a wild goose chase? It’s probably nothing, but if it turns out to be something more, she’ll be our first call. Okay?’
She’s such a bad influence, and that’s why I like having her around, challenging me to be more than my neuroses. Nodding, I follow her through the trees, my clothes snagging on some pointier branches low down, until the trees part, at a clearing. There are ankle-high stumps protruding from the brown carpet of dried leaves and twigs, where trees have been felled to allow this single-storey cabin to be built. It looks long-abandoned; the perspex windows covered in mud and dust, and impossible to see through. It is much more of a lodge than a hideaway for bird-spotters, and a padlock hangs from the makeshift wooden door.
‘Do you reckon anyone still lives there?’ Rachel whispers.
‘I doubt it; this is public land, so I wouldn’t have thought anyone would have permission to build on it, let alone live here. I don’t like it, Rachel.’
Memories of Hansel and Gretel illustrations flood my mind, and I’m relieved the roof of the shack doesn’t appear to be made from gingerbread.
‘I think we should phone Cavendish,’ I say again, but Rachel isn’t listening, moving closer to the shack, before circling around it towards the rear.
I remain rooted where I am, conscious that if this is a crime scene, we’ve already breached inspection procedures.
Rachel stops still, and calls for me to join her, her eyes not leaving whatever has caught her attention. ‘I think you were right,’ she says, as I arrive at her side. ‘You should call that DS Cavendish.’
I can’t disagree with her as my gaze falls on the two bolted wooden doors poking out of the ground.
Chapter Twenty-One
Now
Poole, Dorset
‘And what made you go to those particular woods?’ Cavendish isn’t happy when I deliver the news.
‘No specific reason,’ I say honestly. ‘We were just out for a drive and this was the first place we checked.’
‘And Aurélie didn’t tell you to specifically go there when we weren’t in the room. Just strikes me as particularly good luck that you are the person to discover the site.’
‘We don’t know that it is for sure,’ I counter, biting my lip, hoping she won’t hear the anxiety in my voice.
‘Aurélie told me she was being held in Canford Heath Nature Reserve, so why would she do that if in fact it was Delph Woods in Broadstone? Why would she give me an alternative location unless… Wait, is this something you’ve cooked up with that father of hers? I’m sure book sales will be nicely boosted if it turns out the writer played an integral role in tracking down those responsible.’
‘That isn’t what happened,’ I reply defensively.
‘It all makes sense. I knew there had to be a reason he was so insistent you hang around. Is this how it worked in those other investigations? The victims’ families gave you exclusive access and information that they kept from the police so that you could claim all the credit.’
What is her problem? I would never dream of doing something so underhand, but I don’t know if there is any point in continuing to argue. Nothing I say or do will make a difference to Cavendish’s opinion of me. Maybe Rachel was right, and it was inevitable that I’d eventually meet someone who wouldn’t fall over their feet for me. If anything, I should be grateful for the refreshing change of a reader who doesn’t want my autograph.
‘You two had best not enter my potential crime scene,’ she grizzles next.
‘We wouldn’t,’ I reassure her. ‘I understand the importance of preserving the scene.’
‘Mark my words, Emma, if photographs of the shack that didn’t come from my SOCOs end up appearing in your book, there’ll be trouble. You and your friend wait in the car park for me and my team to arrive. Do you understand?’
I feel like a naughty child, chastised for not using common sense. ‘We will wait in the car park for you.’
She cuts the line, leaving me alone in silence, and that’s when panic sets in. I wasn’t concentrating after we discovered those shutters in the ground, so when Rachel told me to find somewhere with a signal to make the call, I didn’t question her decision to remain behind in case anyone emerged from the shack. Pocketing the phone, I rush back into the forest, though it isn’t easy to maintain any kind of pace, such is the trail of twigs and branches.
By the time I reach the gap in the trees to the lake, I’m not even certain I’m on the right course. When I return to the woods, I can’t see the shack, and panic begins to rise in my throat. The trees and foliage are so vast and nothing looks familiar. Trying to get any kind of bearings, I head right, believing the car park is to the left, but I’m soon returning to the car park, and have to double back. My chest is tight with anxiety at the prospect that not only can I not find my way back to the shack, but I may never find Rachel again.
It’s a ridiculous thought, and I slap myself hard on the cheek to check my emotions and engage rationality. When I returned to the car park I didn’t come via the lake, so all I need to do is follow the well-trodden path and keep my internal compass heading straight. After what feels like ten minutes – but is probably five or fewer – I still can’t see the shack, and that’s when I begin to call out Rachel’s name. The forest swallows me deeper with my calling unreturned, and then as I’m straining to see anything I recognise, I catch a glimpse of the roofline, and plough through until I am once more outside the shack.
My relief is tempered, as Rachel is not where I left her. Calling out her name again, I’m conscious of getting closer to the outbuilding and shutters, but a part of me already knows Rachel reneged on her promise not to go investigating.
‘Rachel!’ I shout. ‘Cavendish is on her way. We need to wait at the car park.’
There is no response, and no sound save for the roar of tension in my ears.
‘Rachel!’ I yell again, this time moving left and right trying to catch a glimpse of colour or movement.
What if whoever was holding Aurélie was still in the shack, and saw Rachel poking around and grabbed her? Or what if she was snooping around and fell into some kind of manmade trap, but is unconscious and that’s why she’s not responding?
I know I’m being irrational again, and that it’s just as likely she got bored of waiting and headed back to the car park on a different route to mine.
‘Rachel!’ I try again, unsure how easy it will be to find my own way back to the car park unaided.
‘Oh good, you’re back,’ she calls out, emerging from the rear of the shack.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I reprimand to cover my relief. ‘I told you to stay well back.’
She waves away my concern. ‘It’s fine, I didn’t touch anything. Nobody will know I was poking about.’ She pauses when she sees the anger in my glare. ‘Relax, will you? I just wanted to make sure that the place is actually empty, and that the person responsible wasn’t hiding inside. He isn’t, as far as I can tell. I found another door at the back; this one was open, suggesting whoever was there last left in something of a hurry.’
I can picture Cavendish’s face if she ever learns that Rachel went inside. ‘We need to head back to the car park and wait for the police.’
‘Hey, of course,’ she says too easily.
I’d expected her to try and tempt me to snoop around inside too, or to suggest we take some pictures, and the fact that she hasn’t must mean that she already has. We will cross that bridge later; right now I just want to get away from this creepy place.
We’ve only just made it back to the car when Cavendish comes screeching into the car park with unnecessary fuss. She parks directly behind Rachel’s car, cutting off any chance of us leaving; not that we’d planned to.
‘I want you to show me where this place is,’ she demands when I’ve lowered the window to speak to her. ‘The two of you will lead me and DC Dixon to the site, and then he will accompany you both back here to take your statements.’
It isn’t a request, so I can neither agree nor disagree. Exiting the car, Rachel fires me a glance that suggests she gets my point about Cavendish strongly disliking me. This is further underlined as we dip into the forest, and Cavendish focuses her questions on Rachel, leaving me and DC Dixon to follow behind.
‘Whose idea was it to come here today?’ she asks Rachel.
‘Um…’ Rachel begins, trying to find a way not to drop me in it. ‘It was a joint decision, I think.’
‘A joint decision? How does that work?’
‘Um, well, we looked at a map of the area, and this just happened to be the first one we came to from Weymouth, that’s all.’
‘I see, and so where were you due to go next?’
Rachel is visibly squirming directly in front of me, and I can’t blame her, as we hadn’t actually discussed where we would go next.
‘I’m not sure,’ she concedes. ‘We hadn’t got that far.’
‘So when you left Weymouth today, it was your sole intention to come to these woods?’
‘No, not exactly. We just wanted to have a drive around – get our bearings – and then return home. It was only by chance that this is the only place we got to.’
Even I can hear that it doesn’t add up, and I can’t blame Cavendish for jumping to the wrong conclusion about what we’re doing here. DC Dixon smiles apologetically at me. He can’t be much older than Aurélie; his cheeks are still plump with baby fat; and there are no thinning patches in his shaved head of hair. He is wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a tie that doesn’t sit comfortably and looks as though it has already been tugged and straightened into submission. He remains silent as Cavendish continues to shoot holes in our story.
Rachel’s internal compass is clearly better than mine, because we are soon approaching the low roof of the shack, at which point Cavendish tells Rachel and me to remain where we are, whilst she and Dixon survey the scene. They creep forward, separating so that she can follow around to the rear of the property, whilst Dixon heads straight for the front door, banging a fist against it to catch the attention of anyone who might be inside.
Cavendish stops as soon as she sees the shutter-type doors in the ground. They stick up at an acute angle, suggesting they lead to more than just a shallow hole beneath.
‘There’s no lock on those doors,’ Rachel whispers. ‘I wanted to open them and have a look, but there was a weird smell, so I thought it best to steer clear.’
Cavendish has no such reluctance, snapping on a pair of gloves and calling to Dixon to help open them. When his gloves are on, he heaves one of the doors open with little strain, though it takes Cavendish longer to lug hers free. They both take a noticeable step backwards as stale, warm air rushes up to greet them. It’s difficult for us to see what they are staring at, but there does appear to be a narrow tunnel descending out of sight. It could simply be the entrance to some kind of coal cellar, but I know I’m trying to convince myself.
Cavendish and Dixon close the shutter-doors once more, and continue around to the back of the house. A moment later I see a flash of white beyond one of the murky plastic windows, and recognise Dixon’s face as he stares out at us and waves. They continue to move about inside the property, before Dixon emerges and moves swiftly towards us.
