The Woman in the Wood Read online

  Also by M.K. Hill

  Sasha Dawson series

  The Bad Place

  THE WOMAN IN THE WOOD

  M.K. Hill

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the UK in 2021 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © M. K. Hill, 2021

  The moral right of M. K. Hill to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781788548304

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781788548311

  ISBN (E): 9781788548335

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  For Jamie, with thanks

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  The charm of fame is so great that we like every object to which it is attached, even death.

  Blaise Pascal

  1

  ‘Why don’t you leave her alone, mate?’

  Deano didn’t like the way the prat was looking at him. As if he was better than him, as if he was a cut above. Deano wasn’t going to let anybody talk to him like that, not in this pub, not ever. Certainly not this pathetic guy, and his whiny bitch of a girlfriend. He lurched forward to jab the little rat in the chest.

  ‘What the hell’ – Deano’s voice was an aggressive slur – ‘has it got to do with you?’

  ‘Please, we don’t want any trouble.’ The man placed an arm around his girl’s shoulder to lead her away, but Deano wasn’t about to let the snivelling little prick off the hook. All he had done was try to talk to her. Last time he looked, it wasn’t a crime to talk to a girl; they liked it when you chatted them up, and it wasn’t even like she was that attractive anyway. But the guy had got all snotty. Telling him to stop bothering her, treating him as if he was the lowest of the low.

  As if he could see into the depths of Deano’s rotten soul.

  ‘You don’t know what I’m capable of.’ He pursued the pair of them, elbowing his way through the crowd, causing someone’s pint to slop. ‘None of you wankers do.’

  ‘Give it a rest and go home,’ someone shouted.

  ‘Who said that?’ Deano swung round, balling his fists, searching for the culprit. He was a big guy, over six foot, with wide shoulders and a pit-bull face, and knew how to intimidate. ‘Come on then, if you want some.’

  But then he was grabbed from behind. A pair of bouncers in black bomber jackets twisted his arms high behind his back and bundled him towards the door.

  ‘Get off,’ Deano screamed, calling them all sorts. ‘Get off me!’

  He tried to squirm from their grasp, but he was pissed and slow and clumsy, and the tips of his toes barely touched the ground as he was dragged out the door, the laughs and jeers and shouts of ‘See ya’ from everyone in the pub ringing in his ears.

  ‘You don’t know,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘You people don’t know who I am, what I’ve done.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, big man,’ someone called. ‘Bore off.’

  And then he was thrown into the cool night. His legs folded beneath him as he fell to the pavement.

  One of the bouncers jabbed a finger. ‘You’re barred.’

  Deano sat in a heap in the middle of the street, the palms of his hands stinging from where they had scraped against the concrete kerb. He was humiliated now, and desperate for a drink, and just wanted to go back inside.

  ‘I’ll be quiet, I’ll be good,’ he told the doormen sullenly. ‘I won’t bother anyone.’

  ‘Get yourself home, mate,’ one of them said with a sneer. ‘You’re embarrassing yourself.’

  Deano tried to convince them he’d mind his own business, he wouldn’t make any trouble, but they weren’t having any of it. So he climbed unsteadily to his feet – the road and the night sky seemed to tip and sway as he stood upright – and straightened his clothes with as much dignity as he could muster.

  Now he knew he wouldn’t get back in, he pointed a finger at the two doormen. ‘I’ll be back.’

  ‘Sure, Arnie.’ They both laughed at him.

  As soon as he was sure nobody could see him, Deano burst out crying. He wept because every night was the same now. He’d go out drinking and get into a fight, he didn’t even know how it happened but it always did, and then he’d go into blackout, and wake up covered in cuts and bruises on a hospital trolley, or in a police cell, full of shame and despair.

  He smeared the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand, licked his sopping lips, and tried to focus on the street signs so he could work out where he was, but he didn’t recognize any of the landmarks.

  So Deano was relieved to see a train station ahead of him. He looked up at the sign, squinting to force the words to stop vibrating, and saw where he was – Hockley, which was a village a few stops from Southend-on-Sea. He vaguely remembered getting on a train a few hours ago, because that’s what he had to do now, just so he could get a drink. In Southend it was becoming more and more difficult to find a pub or bar that would let him in; they all knew his face and refused to serve him, so he was forced to travel out of town.

  He had no idea what the time was; all he knew was that it was late and he’d been on the piss all day, and he just wanted to get home and sleep. Deano prayed the trains were still running, but if they weren’t he’d find a bench to curl up on till morning. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Yeah, drink would be the death of him. Now his tears of frustration had dried in the chill of the night, he kind of knew he was on the escalator to hell. One day he’d drop dead of liver fail
ure, or a heart attack, or more likely he’d pick a fight with some guy who was bigger than him. Quicker, stronger – more sober.

  All these years later, he was still trying to live with the guilt of what he’d done. If he didn’t do something about it, the knowledge would eat away at him like a cancer.

  Sometimes, Deano wished those others had called the police on him. He’d be paying the price. In prison right now, lying on his bunk after lights out listening to the wails and night terrors of the other cons, three years into a twenty-year stretch. But a life banged up had to be better than what he had right now, which was a living hell. Because she was the first thing he thought about when he woke up every morning and the last thing on his mind before he drifted into a sleep filled with nightmares.

  And Deano’s drinking was getting worse. He was getting obliterated every night in an attempt to blot out what had happened…

  What he did.

  Sure, he had a temper when he was sober, but if he hadn’t been drinking he’d never have done any of the stupid things he had on his conscience. It was the booze that made him attack that random guy in the street all those years ago, it was the drink that made his ex call the police on him – and it was what finally made him a murderer.

  Deep down, he understood that he picked fights with strangers in pubs because he had a death wish. He knew that one day he could be felled by a single, sickening punch, he may not even see it coming – and then it would all be over. He was sick of himself, he was tired of being Andrew Dean.

  So as he approached the station entrance, Deano came to a decision. He was going to go to the police and confess what he did, and where they could find the body; and finally, all these years later, he would face the consequences of his actions. He’d be punished, locked up for years and years, but at least he could get help for his drinking and depression. That’s what he was going to do, he was going to confess, and maybe one day when he was released, he’d finally be able to turn his life around.

  It’s true that there’d been many times like this, when drunk and depressed, he had convinced himself that he was going to turn himself in, but then the next morning did nothing about it. But this time Deano was determined. First thing tomorrow, or most likely when he dragged himself out of bed after lunch, he would go to the police station. And then it would all be over.

  Relief washed over him as he stood on the empty platform and wept again. Wracking sobs that made his chest heave so hard he could hardly catch his breath. Tears fell through his big hands, hands that had killed, and onto the floor.

  But when he looked up, the sobs still catching in his throat, he saw that he wasn’t alone. Someone was watching him from the shadows.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ Embarrassed at being caught crying, his anger returned. ‘Piss off.’

  Deano turned away, determined to ignore them. He wasn’t going to let anyone wind him up, not now he had come to a decision. But when he looked back, the figure was still there, standing in the darkness beneath the platform roof. All he could see was their glinting, watchful eyes, and that they held something long and thin, like a walking stick, close to their side.

  ‘You are one creepy weirdo,’ Deano said. ‘You know that, yeah?’

  He heard the rumble of a train in the distance, and not before time. He was shattered, and just wanted to get home. He’d really like to smoke a cigarette on the train, that would help him relax, but when he patted his pockets, he realized he was out, so he swallowed his pride and called to the figure in the shadows.

  ‘Hey, mate, got a fag?’

  The stranger reached slowly into a pocket, and Deano knew his luck was in. So he stumbled over – trying not to look too drunk or threatening, in case they freaked out – and stood with his hand out. The train was getting louder in the distance.

  ‘Cheers,’ he slurred. ‘No hard feelings, yeah?’

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the hand trying to lift something from the pocket, a cigarette, or maybe the whole packet if the stranger was feeling generous, and Deano was already looking forward to that first hit of smoke filling his lungs. He had already decided he wasn’t going to get on this train, he’d sit on the bench and enjoy the cigarette on the platform.

  Deano licked his lips in anticipation, but then the stranger took out a bottle with a spray nozzle on it, and lifted it towards him. He barely had time to focus before he heard a hiss – and felt an excruciating pain in his eyes.

  ‘Aaargh!’ Deano clutched his face. The agony was indescribable; his eyeballs felt like they were on fire, the pain sizzling all the way behind his sockets and into his skull. His cheeks felt like they were melting, and his nose and ears. He wheeled away, blinded.

  Dimly, he heard the train approaching and wanted to wave his arms – Help me! – but couldn’t bear to tear his hands away from his face. He scratched at his eyes with his nails in a desperate attempt to claw away the pain.

  And then – he didn’t understand it – there was another sharp sensation in his ribs, a shocking jolt, accompanied by a harsh buzz. He yelped and reared away. Unable to comprehend what it was, or what was happening to him, he stumbled backwards. Twisting an ankle, he only just managed to keep his balance before he felt another burning shock in the soft flesh of his stomach. Confused, helpless, Deano screeched. The pain – in his eyes, in his face and stomach – was beyond anything he had ever imagined.

  Another excruciating shock, this time in his left side, made him squirm away – but then he felt another in his ribs. His eyes felt like they were on fire in their sockets, the skin on his face burning.

  ‘No,’ he screamed, helpless. ‘Stop it!’

  There was another buzzing shock in his right side, then to his chest and stomach, and Deano jumped back, trying to get out of reach of his tormentor.

  The roar of the train filled his ears now. He cried for help, for someone to come and help him, and make it stop.

  And then he felt another prolonged shock on his belly; the searing pain and the buzz seemed to last forever, and he smelled his own flesh burn. His face was on fire, and now his stomach.

  Deano had to get away, he had to make it stop, to get help – and he leaped.

  Straight off the platform and into the path of the train.

  2

  Detective Inspector Sasha Dawson pulled her knackered Spider Veloce into the station car park, negotiating a narrow space between a patrol car and a forensics van. She was carefully nosing the front end forward, using the wing mirrors as she edged into the space with inches to spare on either side, when her phone began to ring in her bag on the passenger seat, causing her unnecessary anxiety during the delicate manoeuvre.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she appealed to the impatient phone. ‘Just let me…’

  As soon as she was satisfied the front bumper was nestled against the kerb, she cranked the handbrake and killed the engine.

  Flustered, Sasha dug the phone from her bag. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You do remember we’re meeting tonight, don’t you, darling?’ said her sister, not bothering with any of the usual introductory niceties.

  ‘Hello, Connie, how are you?’ said Sasha, making a point.

  Con ignored her and said, ‘You won’t let me down again, will you?’

  Sasha gave herself a quick once-over in the rear-view mirror, clawing her fingers and dragging them through her white hair. Clamping the phone as best she could between her ear and shoulder, she pulled the long bob into a ponytail, accentuating the perfect point of her widow’s peak against her olive skin, and tied it in place. Then she opened the driver’s door as far as she could in the tiny space between her Spider and the patrol car – it was incredibly tight, and in hindsight she maybe should have parked somewhere else – ignoring the smirks of the uniforms and forensics team who watched her trying to squeeze into the gap between the vehicles.

  ‘Are you there, darling?’ asked her sister impatiently.

  Shuffling sideways along the slice of space, Sasha swallow
ed her irritation. She and Con had been meaning to catch up for weeks now, had several times arranged a time, date and location, but Connie always bailed at the last minute, and blamed Sasha for postponing.

  ‘I’m going to have to play it by ear, Con.’ A late night in the office could be on the cards if the death of the man on the rail track proved suspicious. ‘But I promise I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ said a uniformed officer, who came over with a clipboard.

  ‘Hello.’ She showed him her ID and he signed her into the scene cordon log. ‘Good to see you.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Connie asked on the phone, but she didn’t wait for Sasha to answer. ‘I really need to see you… well, the fact is, I need a favour.’

  Stepping out of the way of the stream of emergency personnel walking to and from the building, Sasha lifted her eyes to the blue, cloudless sky. Connie’s requests for favours usually involved loans or financial support for her boyfriend Barry’s doomed business ventures. And besides, Sasha couldn’t remember the last time Connie had done her any favours in return, hadn’t even offered to babysit her kids when they were younger. Getting help from Con, for anything at all, was like getting blood from a stone.

  Perhaps sensing Sasha’s reticence, Connie added quickly, ‘And of course, I’m so looking forward to seeing you, it’s been ages.’

  ‘As I say, Con—’

  ‘Shall we say seven at that new bar in Leigh? See you then, Sash. Can’t wait.’

  And then Connie hung up. Sasha was still staring at her phone when Detective Sergeant Ajay de Vaz, already suited in his forensic coveralls, came over.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, but my son lost his school bag in his tip of a bedroom.’ She offered him an amused eye-roll, intended to make light of her tardiness. Sasha’s timekeeping wasn’t the best; at her most recent work appraisal she had promised to be more punctual. But she also knew that nobody in her Major Incident Team would drop her in it. She nodded towards the station. ‘Tell me now, is it bad?’