Page 8 of The Girl in the Woods

Charlie spent more and more time away from home, and it wasn’t long before Brenda discovered that her husband had a split personality and that the man she had married was actually a drug-addicted abuser.

CHAPTER SEVEN

PRESENT DAY

The high trill of Beth’s mobile shattered the night’s silence and pierced through her brain like sharp needles. Her hand fumbled around the bedside cabinet, hitting a glass of water and sending it smashing to the floor. Shit.

An incessant throb drummed across her right temple in time with the relentless ringing. The time on her phone read 1.15am. What the hell? That familiar churning in her stomach returned, and she felt nauseous.

‘DS Harper,’ she mumbled into the phone, her voice croaky.

God, she’d needed that water.

‘It’s Will Moulson here,’ said the voice at the other end.

‘Who?’ asked Beth, trying to get her fuddled brain into gear. Who was Will Moulson, and why was he calling her at one in the morning? ‘I think you have the wrong number,’ she said, about to hang up.

‘Will Moulson from Longbridge, you know, the next village.’

Beth sensed the sarcasm and leaned over to switch on the lamp. As she sat up, her arm brushed the empty wine bottle. ‘It’s one in the morning,’ she said sleepily. ‘Is this a police matter?’

‘Oh, I’m well aware of the time,’ he said sardonically. ‘As is half the bloody village. We’ve had that trail bike here again and–’

‘Have you phoned the station, Mr Moulson?’ Beth broke in.

There was a scoff from the other end of the line. ‘Like all the other times? Where no one does anything. We’re not prepared to put up with this intimidation any longer. We’ve got photos. Either you do something, or we’ll take it into our own hands. I’m number 23 Oakfields Road.’

Beth sighed. ‘I would advise you not to do anything stupid, Mr Moulson.’

‘Perhaps you’d better do something then. I’m sorry this isn’t an exciting murder case for you.’

Beth sat forward, her shoulders tensed. ‘What did you say?’

Mr Moulson had already hung up. Beth exhaled heavily, climbed from the bed, gingerly stepped over the broken glass, and walked to the kitchen. Then, after filling a glass with water and swallowing two painkillers, she phoned the station.

DC Matt Wilkins had barely answered before she said, ‘Matt, get over to Longbridge. Someone called Will Moulson just phoned me. That trail bike brat is at it again. They’ve got photos of the kid. Go over to Moulson before he does something stupid. He’s all worked up. 23 Oakfields Road. I’ll meet you there. See if you can catch the lad on the bike.’

‘What, now?’ asked Matt surprised. ‘It’s half past one.’

‘No kidding, Sherlock. Have you got something better to do?’

‘No, ma’am,’ sighed Matt. ‘I’m on my way.’

Beth flopped into a kitchen chair and laid her throbbing head on the table. Were they ever going to let her forget the murder last year? It had been frightening for everyone, including her, but now everyone seemed to think that unless it was some gory murder they were reporting, then she wasn’t interested.

Her thoughts wandered to Tom Miller and the events of a year ago, the horrific attacks and how they had changed everyone. Tom had been traumatised, and when he’d left as the station’s DI three months ago, Beth felt like her heart had been broken again.

‘It’s too soon,’ he’d told her. ‘Please forgive me.’

She sighed heavily and decided to have an early night later. Then, with a jolt, she remembered her sister’s birthday dinner that evening, which, in turn, reminded her that today would have been her wedding anniversary.

Beth cursed the trail bike kid and quickly dressed. Outside, the air was cool and fresh. The street was eerily quiet, with just the odd cry of an owl breaking the peaceful silence. She never ceased to appreciate the beauty of Stonesend village. Wands of rising branches became dancing silhouettes in the moonlight. The stone cottage windows were wide open to relieve the day’s heat.

Beth drove slowly by the churchyard and forced her eyes away from the small empty cottage beside it where Tom had lived, keeping her gaze firmly on the road. It took five minutes for her to reach the village of Longbridge.

Here, the houses were different from those in Stonesend. They huddled together, sharing walls and forming a row of rooftop peaks. The front gardens were decorated with scooters, bikes, and Wellington boots. Beth parked behind Matt’s panda police car and pushed open the gate of number 23, where the front garden displayed a neatly trimmed lawn and terracotta pots holding petunias.

Matt met her at the front door. ‘They’re pretty worked up,’ he said. ‘Can’t say I blame them.’

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