Page 10 of Watching You

Dr Connie Woolwine wandered through the woodland where the Weeping Girls had witnessed a man being attacked, dragged and buried in earthy airlessness, and wondered what had been in Laura Ford’s beautiful, brilliant mind when she’d designed the statues.

Crime scene tape, that flimsiest and most arresting of barriers, warned visitors away from the death site, and it was due to be removed as soon as Connie had spent all the time she wanted there.

The crime scene technicians had worked their magic, and a flag marked the spot where they’d found a solitary blood spatter on a rock at the base of a tree that had, miraculously, remained protected from the elements throughout the winter.

DNA testing had linked the blood to the victim so that was where she stood, waiting for Brodie Baarda to approach her from behind.

She whirled around to face him. ‘You’re still five metres away. Were you not trained to be quieter than that in the police?’

‘You were waiting for me and listening. Plus you were standing in place, so not making any noise with your own feet. And I was a kidnapping specialist. When I wasn’t negotiating, we were entering buildings by force rather than silently.’

Connie was being unfair and she knew it.

Baarda was several inches over six foot tall, with broad shoulders and feet of a size ill-designed for silent passage over twigs and leaves.

Since she’d started working with him, he’d lost the soft edges of a too-comfortable but bad marriage, and reclaimed the body of his younger self who’d played rugby for his county and lifted weights to exorcise his daily demons.

Baarda, his short hair curly if not regularly cut, with cheekbones that women stared at even if he never saw it, was entering his prime in his fifties.

He made Connie feel safe in a way she refused to admit even to herself.

‘Pick up a stick,’ she said, turning her back on him. ‘And make it a good one.’

Baarda sighed. ‘You know I hate re-enacting these things.’

‘The victim’s dead,’ Connie said. ‘You think he’s looking down on us, disapproving?’

‘I think if anyone walks up and sees us doing this, it’s going to cause one hell of a scene.’

‘Better not waste time then. Stick, approach, hit me – carefully, obviously – and you know the rest.’

Baarda picked up a good-sized stick that nonetheless looked non-lethal and sneaked up behind her.

Connie listened to him approach and imagined the options.

The victim might have had headphones in or been on a call.

He might have been distracted by taking a photo or simply been deep in thought.

His attacker might have been wearing the softest of trainers as opposed to Baarda’s standard boots.

Or he might have known the person who’d struck his skull so hard it had knocked the consciousness right out of him.

Known and trusted. Perhaps even liked. Maybe loved.

The stick tapped Connie on the side of the skull and she let her body tumble forward and diagonally away from the direction of Baarda’s mock blow. She fell face first into the dirt, aware as she collapsed that the autumnal leaf bed would have made for a softer, more hushed landing.

Looking at the tree to one side of where the victim’s blood had been found, presumably from his mouth or nose, she realised it might have been nothing more than a contact splatter as he’d hit the ground.

She could see the base of a tree, hedgerows and the imprint of footsteps that had trod the path before.

The earth tasted rich and peaty in her mouth, not altogether unpleasant save for the grittiness of its texture.

She tried to spit it out and succeeded only in sucking the dirt further back in her throat.

‘Drag me,’ she ordered Baarda. She didn’t need to see his face to know that he’d be rolling his eyes and clenching his jaw.

He took hold of her feet, though. It was part of her process, immersing herself in the whole of the crime, seeing what the victim had seen.

Baarda had worked with her long enough not to attempt to persuade her out of it.

She knew he still thought of her as something of a curiosity.

They were from different worlds – his blood was aristocratic, his education from Eton.

She hailed from Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts.

Her family had money too, but America wielded its finances in yachts and automobiles rather than boarding school places.

The difference in height between them meant that Baarda had to bend to avoid hurting Connie’s back as he dragged her, but she still felt the full force of the movement through the mud, every sharp stone and piercing twig catching on her chin and her hands, and pulling her top upwards to leave marks on her stomach.

She didn’t fight it. The victim hadn’t been able to.

It took a disconcertingly long time to reach the shallow grave in the bushes, and she was relieved when he dropped her legs to kick a second demi-ditch with his feet next to the real gravesite.

‘You okay?’ Baarda asked her.

The victim would have been incapable of speech, she thought, refusing to answer. Baarda muttered to himself as he kicked dirt this way and that.

The birds had stopped singing. The woods were disturbingly quiet now. Nature had a consciousness, Connie thought, that went beyond startled animals fleeing and insects rolling into balls. Nature knew when bad things were happening.

Baarda stopped preparing the ditch, picked up her feet again and began pulling her backwards into the grave without issuing another word.

Connie was working, and while it wasn’t voodoo, it was a deep delve into psychology.

She let her body go limp, took several deep breaths, and listened closely as Baarda fought his way through undergrowth, pushed straining branches aside, and got her in place before tossing leaves and earth over her.

Connie managed a full two minutes without breathing before heaving upwards, throwing off the soil blanket and gulping down oxygen.

‘Stay still before all the dirt gets in your eyes,’ Baarda said, kneeling in front of her and brushing the mess from her face. ‘Connie, can you catch your breath?’

‘Tell me how that felt for you,’ she demanded, because that had been the point all along. Not the victim’s perspective – although there was something wrong with the attack that Connie couldn’t quite put her finger on yet – but the attacker’s.

‘Ah, that’s why you made me do this. Well,’ he was quiet for half a minute, ‘even though I’m bigger than you, and you don’t eat enough, it still wasn’t easy manoeuvring your body.

Your clothes kept catching on things, and an adult human with arms out over its head is long and awkward.

It’s hard not to be aware of every bump and scratch your head took.

God almighty, Connie, you’re bleeding in five different places. ’

‘Ignore it,’ she demanded. ‘I need to know.’

‘It was … functional,’ Baarda said. ‘Easier to think of it like a job than to let myself feel anything. Moving into the undergrowth was difficult because of the surface roots and vines. And I could hear you gasping for breath as I dragged you, that was the worst bit.’

‘How did you feel when you were getting me into the grave?’

‘It was annoying, I guess. Your body was so floppy that fitting all the bits in without more time and a spade was difficult. I wanted it to be over. It was very personal, pushing your limbs into the ground. Close contact. Especially when your body was still warm, that was odd.’

‘Good,’ Connie said. ‘That’s good.’

‘It was a relief to step out of the bushes because then the branches sprang back into place and I wasn’t fighting them any more. Your chin really is bleeding badly, and an infection from plants or bushes is actually much more likely than from a wire fence. We have to get you cleaned up.’

‘Relax, my tetanus is up to date. So, good way to kill someone or bad way to kill someone?’ Connie flicked leaves out of her hair and stood.

‘Messy. Intimate. Not for the faint-hearted. You’re aware of everything – twigs underfoot, insects attracted by hot bodies, the sound of your own breathing – and I ache, even though you’re light and the victim would have been heavier.’

‘And our actual attacker took the time to strip the victim of his personal effects, to cover their tracks as best they could, then they’d have had to tidy themself up before heading out, in case they bumped into any other visitors,’ Connie said, pulling a small pack of wipes from her pocket and cleaning the grazes on her stomach, face and hands.

‘Indeed,’ Baarda said. ‘So the perpetrator is organised, thoughtful, fit, and they didn’t have time to pause or panic.’

‘Yup. They’d thought this through just enough, but not to the extent that they’d hidden a garden spade here or pre-dug a grave. I think using this place was impromptu, but the killer knew what they were doing.’

‘It’s likely not a wife, partner or close relative of the deceased or they’d be having to answer questions about the disappearance to friends and family.’ Baarda walked to the backpack he’d set next to a tree, took out a bottle of water, twisted the cap and handed it to her.

‘You know, Baarda, I’m never going to want to get into an intimate relationship when you’re already this thoughtful. What more could I ask for in a man than someone who’s willing to haul me into a shallow grave then take such good care of me afterwards?’

‘When you put it like that, I realise just how close our relationship is to being emotionally abusive,’ he said. ‘Did you get what you needed from this whole, horrific exercise?’

‘Not enough,’ she said. ‘Still more questions than answers. But I know one thing. Someone wanted our victim dead. They needed to be done with him. There was nothing left to chance, from the blow to the head, to hiding the body and leaving him sucking in dirt. And when death is the aim, not robbery, not lashing out, not a passionate argument, it’s usually because the attacker knew the victim in some way.

So now we just have to figure out who the victim was.

That’s the only way this’ll start to make sense. ’

‘Good. Can we go to the hotel now? I’d really like to shower before heading for the police station.’

‘Sorry, no time.’ Connie marched ahead of him. ‘We have a date with a corpse.’