The Woman in the Wood Read online

  ‘Guy was hit by a train.’ The ends of de Vaz’s mouth pulled down in a grimace. ‘He’s all over the place.’

  ‘Okay, then,’ she said stoically as they approached the inner cordon set up at the station entrance, where she would be obliged to put on Tyvek coveralls over her M&S trouser suit, and shoe covers over her brogues.

  Her prematurely white hair – Sasha was only just sliding down the wrong side of forty-five – was already secure, ready for the hood. But because of her pear-shaped body, her slim waist tapering to wide hips, and her legs, which weren’t the longest, she always felt self-conscious walking around in those infernal suits. But then, they made everyone look like a Teletubby. Everyone except Ajay, who always managed to look catwalk-ready.

  On the way, her gaze swept across the small crowd that had formed at the entrance of the car park, where the police outer cordon had been established. People had come to see what on earth had happened that would require the attendance of the emergency services, and the quick arrival of a TV camera crew.

  A face in the crowd made Sasha do a double take, but when she searched for it again she couldn’t see anyone she knew. Instead, she turned her attention to the nondescript building in front of her. It was as unremarkable as any of the thousands of train stations in towns and villages across the UK, stripped of any character it may have once possessed, the platforms and train tracks sealed off by spiked metal fencing.

  Four stops from Southend Victoria on the Shenfield line, the trains that stopped there transported commuters to and from London Liverpool Street, fifty minutes away. But this morning the line was severely disrupted because of the body on the track; it would be out of action for a few hours yet.

  ‘What do we know?’ she asked as she climbed into a support van to suit up.

  ‘A man fell in front of a train late last night. The driver said he thought he saw someone else on the platform just before the deceased died. Said he saw them waving about a walking stick. It was dark, of course, and the train flashed past, so he couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘A walking stick?’ She frowned. ‘Have we got the CCTV footage from the driver’s compartment yet?’

  ‘We’ve put in a request with the operator.’

  ‘And how is the driver?’

  ‘Traumatized,’ said Ajay, ‘as you can well imagine.’

  ‘Poor man. Is anyone from British Transport Police here yet?’

  Because the crime had taken place on railway property, there was a strong chance that BTP would have jurisdiction over it, particularly if it involved a random encounter on the platform.

  ‘They’re on their way.’

  ‘And the deceased?’

  ‘Name’s Andrew Dean. He’s a Southend resident, lives… lived on York Road.’ As she climbed into the Tyvek suit, Ajay held up clear plastic bags containing the victim’s debit card, driving licence and other unidentified items. ‘His wallet was found trackside. All the contents of his pockets were literally slammed from his body when the train hit him.’

  ‘Do we know what he was doing here in Hockley?’

  ‘Making a nuisance of himself in a local pub, by all accounts.’

  Ajay watched her snap the elasticated plastic covers over her shoes. His small, perfectly groomed features were already half-hidden by the polyethylene material and his dark hair, combed so immaculately smooth you’d think it was a piece of Lego, was hidden beneath a hood. ‘He became abusive and got thrown out just before closing time.’

  ‘Ah.’ If Andrew Dean had got himself into a dispute elsewhere that led to his violent death on the tracks, then transport police wouldn’t get involved. ‘And we know this how?’

  He gestured towards the knot of onlookers. ‘I spoke to one of the locals and it was the first thing she remembered about last night. There was a guy causing trouble at a local pub, hassling people, getting increasingly intoxicated and lairy, and he was ejected. I showed her his driver’s ID and Bob’s your uncle.’

  ‘Did he get into a fight with anyone in particular?’

  ‘He was harassing a young woman, and her boyfriend tried to intervene, but mostly he was obnoxious to everyone.’

  ‘A pub full of suspects,’ Sasha said. ‘That’s a good start.’

  ‘Andrew Dean could barely stand when he left the pub. Could be he fell off the platform by accident.’

  Sasha took the plastic bag to get a better look at the driving licence with Andrew Dean’s personal details on it. He was a hulking figure in the headshot, bull-necked, with a big square jaw, a broken nose and hooded eyes; he glowered sullenly at the camera.

  ‘Looks a charmer,’ she said.

  ‘Ring any bells, Mrs Dawson?’

  That caught her attention and she looked up quickly. ‘Should he?’

  Ajay’s eyes flashed mischievously. ‘I did a quick search for him on the internet.’

  ‘I love that about you, Ajay,’ she told him. ‘Your initiative.’

  ‘Him and a group of other men were questioned about the disappearance of a girl a few years back. One of them was some kind of’ – his nostrils flared, as if the phrase was distasteful – ‘reality star.’

  She pulled the hood of the Tyvek suit over her head and they climbed from the van to duck under the crime tape at the inner cordon, established outside the ticket office. Sasha took a moment to notice the black bulb of the CCTV camera in one corner of the room.

  The sun was lifting in the blue sky now. The summers were getting hotter and hotter in this part of south Essex, and as they walked along the platform towards the footbridge that crossed the rail track, Sasha was baking in the coveralls.

  ‘That thing is turned off, right?’ She pointed at the electrified track and he grinned, as if to say, You’d better hope so. ‘Just checking.’

  It was disconcerting to see sheets laid along the track to hide a number of different body parts. Sasha had seen numerous corpses in her career as a murder detective. But the effect of a train collision on the human body was catastrophic. The train that mowed down Andrew Dean weighed hundreds of tons and because it wasn’t due to stop at Hockley would have passed through the station at over a hundred miles an hour. At the moment of impact, Andrew Dean would have been killed instantaneously, sustaining massive internal and external injuries. His body would have been thrown in the air like a football, the limbs flying off, or sliced to bits beneath the wheels of the train.

  Standing beneath the footbridge that spanned the platforms, Sasha could see the rear of the train where it had finally come to a stop a quarter mile further up the track. CSIs moved about the front carriage like ants, swabbing its steel surface. A PolSA team, trained police searchers, moved methodically along the tracks in a tight line.

  A single white tent had been erected fifty yards beyond the end of the eastbound platform, which meant the body was at least partially intact. Sasha and Ajay walked down the slope at the end of the platform towards it.

  A couple of CSIs stood outside the tent chatting as they approached. Sasha paused at the entrance for a moment, steeling herself to face the body inside. Ajay waited patiently for her to gather her thoughts.

  ‘That girl who disappeared,’ she turned to ask him. ‘Was she ever found?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  She gestured at the tent, inviting him to go in first. ‘Brains before beauty.’

  3

  ‘Hey, Abs, thanks for coming.’

  ‘Sure, no problem.’

  ‘It’s not often we get someone as famous as you in one of our retail units. Have you ever opened one of our shops before?’

  ‘No.’ Abs looked around QuidStore, with its shelves of products at rock-bottom prices and its automated tills. It smelled of bleach and air freshener. He tried to sound upbeat. ‘This is my first… discount store.’

  ‘We’re really pleased you’re here.’ The assistant manager was a young Asian man, who looked like he’d just left school. ‘What we’d like you to do is say a few words outside abou
t what you love about QuidStore, and then cut the ribbon, maybe chat to some of our customers.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  Abs gave the guy a big grin, because that’s what everyone wanted from him, that’s what they expected – a flash of his famous pearly whites – but inside he felt depressed. He had fallen a long way since that time he was flown out by private jet to make a personal appearance at a millionaire’s party in Ibiza. Here he was, opening a discount shop – a QuidStore – on Basildon High Street.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  A woman with a shopping trolley came up to him and he took out his Sharpie, ready to give her an autograph. In his career, he’d had to sign all kinds of things, even cheeky bits of flesh, although it had been a few years since women had thrust their chests at him.

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  He waited for her to ask him to sign something, but she pointed over his shoulder. ‘I just want to get to the detergents.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Abs, moving out of the way. ‘Sorry, love.’

  ‘We got word out to the local press, but to tell you the truth we were expecting more of a crowd,’ the assistant manager said, embarrassed.

  There were half a dozen people outside with their phones in their hands. But Abs didn’t kid himself. Some of those were passers-by who had seen the balloons and ticker tape and had stopped to see what was going on. It was all very different from the days when he arrived in a limo to open luxury apartments, state-of-the-art spas and glitzy nightclubs. He missed those receptions with champagne and canapés on silver platters; he used to love those little prawn things, the biscuits covered in creamy pâté, and pulled pork sliders, served by sexy women in tight black dresses. In those days, everyone was eager to get into his orbit.

  But that was when he was one of the biggest celebs in the UK, the star of TV reality show Laid In Essex! and voted ‘Britain’s Sexiest Guy’ three years on the trot by readers of the Daily Star. It felt like a long time ago now. The crowds had disappeared, along with the TV panel shows, sponsorship deals and party invites.

  But, hell, Abs was a professional and he was going to make the best of it, because anyone’s fortune could change in an instant. All it took was a lucky break, and if Abs was anything in life, he was a lucky guy.

  Yeah, he was just opening a discount store, but those people outside – the teenagers on their phones, that single mum with the double buggy, and those pensioners eating rolls – they had come here to see him, or at least most of them had, and it was his duty to bring a little bit of sunshine into their drab lives. His only talent in life was to make other people happy, to make them smile and giggle, and that’s what he was going to do.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, it’s a bit overcast today,’ said Abs, who had always been a people pleaser. ‘And there’s still time for people to arrive. When do we cut the ribbon?’

  The assistant manager looked at his watch. ‘We’re still waiting for the photographer.’

  Paparazzi! Abs liked the sound of that. ‘At least the press are coming.’

  ‘He’s from our in-house magazine. Shall we go outside?’

  Abs didn’t need asking twice, and he strode out of the shop. He was wearing his usual hoodie and distressed jeans and white trainers – he was famous for his pristine footwear – and his thick, dark hair was pulled up in a small topknot. His dazzling smile was his trademark, his brand.

  ‘Don’t shoot,’ he told the crowd. ‘I’m coming out.’

  ‘Here’s a guy who needs no introduction,’ said the assistant manager, holding a wireless microphone so close to his mouth that his voice contorted with flatulent static. ‘It’s Abs.’

  Grabbing the mic, Abs was relieved to see more people were coming to watch.

  ‘Have they found the right man to open their new shop? Abs, mate!’ Everyone laughed at his catchphrase. On the show, he was always saying Abs, mate! as in absolutely, and it was how he got his famous nickname.

  ‘Not a lot of people know that I once worked in a shop, and was—’ He glanced over the heads of the crowd and saw a guy on the other side of the pedestrian walkway. Standing perfectly still, hands in his pockets, the man was watching him from behind dark glasses, and it made Abs momentarily lose the thread of what he was saying. ‘What was I… oh yeah, I worked in a shop, like I say, and was sacked after five minutes.’ There were a few giggles from the crowd because everyone knew Abs wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, which was why everyone liked him so much. ‘A guy came in and told me he wanted to buy a spider, so I told him to pick one up on the web.’

  ‘I miss you on Laid In Essex!, Abs,’ someone called. ‘It’s not the same without you, are you going back on it?’

  ‘You never know.’ Abs winked. ‘Stranger things have happened. And anyway, me and Kelz have got unfinished business.’

  ‘You can get cheap digging equipment here, for the next time you go on a date,’ someone shouted, but Abs ignored the distasteful jibe.

  ‘Honestly, I’m over the moon to be here.’ He paced on the pavement, as if working the main stage at Glastonbury. ‘In one of the best towns in the whole world, in one of my favourite shops.’

  He said a few more things about how proud he was to be there, and what good value QuidStore was, and then said he was going to cut the ribbon to officially open the shop. But the assistant manager shook his head because the photographer hadn’t turned up, so Abs said he’d sign autographs.

  People crowded around. One girl had brought along a copy of his autobiography, called simply Abs, Mate! In truth, he’d had nothing to do with the writing of it. They hired this ghostwriter, a nice lady who had asked him lots of questions, teasing out the interesting facts of his life and career, and then turned it all into a book. What he had never told anyone was that, not being much of a reader, he hadn’t even read Abs, Mate! He took a moment to look at the cover now, with its embossed gold title and topless photo of him looking young and hot, taken by a top fashion photographer.

  ‘Blimey, I haven’t seen a copy of this for years,’ he told the girl. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘It was in the bargain bin at the charity shop. I bought it for 10p.’

  Abs was about to sign it when he looked up to see the guy was still watching him at the back of the crowd. There was something about the look on his face – grim, almost threatening – that made Abs nervous. He definitely recognized him from somewhere.

  Abs forced himself to pay attention to the girl. ‘What’s your name, love?’

  ‘It’s for my mum, Tracey.’

  Abs scribbled:

  To Tracy, Absolutly my gratest fan. Luv, Abs!!!! xxxxxxx

  The girl frowned. ‘It’s Tracey with an “e”.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ He shoved the book back at her just as his phone rang.

  Abs felt a chill drop down his spine when he saw who it was: Tony. He gawped at it, thinking he wasn’t seeing straight. He hadn’t heard from Tony in three years, not since… what happened.

  Neither of them had been in a hurry to speak to each other, not after the events of that night. So he knew that whatever Tony wanted to talk to him about was going to be important, and that whatever it was, he didn’t want to hear it. But Abs couldn’t help himself, and he touched the screen of his old iPhone and cradled it between his shoulder and his ear while he continued to sign autographs.

  ‘Tone.’ He tried to sound chilled and happy in front of the public. More people had arrived; there was getting to be quite a crowd. Abs did his best to scribble on the pieces of paper they all thrust at him. ‘It’s been too long,’ he lied.

  ‘Deano’s dead,’ said Tony quickly.

  Abs’s pen lifted from the till receipt he was signing. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Tone,’ he said carefully. If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t sorry in the slightest. Tony’s mate Deano was a wrong ’un, and Abs would never forgive him for what happened.

  ‘Yeah.’ Tony sounded upset. ‘He was hit by a train.’

  ‘Ooh.
’ Abs handed back the slip of paper and edged back from the throng, trying to find some space. ‘Nasty way to go.’

  ‘They reckon it could be murder, Abs. The police, I mean.’

  ‘I can’t talk right now, Tone.’ Abs couldn’t hear himself think above all the people pressing against him on every side.

  ‘I think someone’s been following me, Abs.’

  ‘You’re just upset, mate.’ Abs tried to stay calm. ‘I’m in the middle of something right now, but let’s have a catch-up, you, me and Jez.’

  ‘Someone’s after us, Abs, because of what we did. I’m scared.’

  ‘Calm down, bruv.’ Abs was getting the willies now. He was surrounded. People were shoving bits of paper at him to sign, along with DVDs and Laid In Essex! memorabilia. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I get away from here, yeah?’

  ‘They’re coming for us, Abs,’ said Tony in a panic.

  ‘Who is, Tone?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m scared.’

  Abs was finding it difficult to breathe. ‘Just give me half an hour, yeah? I’ll call you back, I promise.’

  ‘They’re after us.’

  ‘Tony, mate,’ said Abs urgently. ‘Relax, you’re getting—’ But then the line went dead. ‘Tone, are you still there?’

  Abs looked up quickly in the direction of the guy who had been watching him, but he was gone. He whirled in a circle to try and find him. The crowd pressed forward, reaching out. Abs scanned their faces in a panic.

  You’re a professional, he scolded himself. Get a grip.

  And then a glinting blade flashed in front of his face – making him flinch in terror.

  ‘Now would be a good time to cut the ribbon,’ said the assistant manager, flipping the scissors over and offering them handle first to Abs.

  4

  Back in the Major Incident Team’s suite of offices at the police station on Victoria Avenue in Southend, Sasha flipped off her shoes and fired up her computer. A television fixed to the wall was showing the local news, a report about coastal erosion along the estuary.

  ‘Hi, Sasha.’ DC Lolly Chambers gave a little wave from behind her desk.