Dead Scared (22 page)

‘Bryony,’ I said to her, ‘can you write?’

A short, sharp nod of the head answered me. I pulled a sterile glove from a box by the bedside and, as gently as I could, slid the pen between her thumb and forefinger. Then I held the plastic up to meet her hand.

Holding the pen and moving it around was a huge effort, I could tell from the way her eyes narrowed and little gasps escaped from
her
throat. Feeling hopeful and guilty at the same time, I watched as she traced out a letter.

W

It took her a long time but at last her hand fell to the bed again and there were two words on the pad.

WATCHING ME

Movement outside. The handle of Bryony’s door started to turn then stopped again. Footsteps walked away. I looked back down to see Bryony had written something else.

SCARED

‘What are you scared of?’ I asked, in a voice I’m not sure she could have heard, then leaned closer to read the final word she’d written. Her hand fell back on the bed covers. She’d written
BELL
.

What kind of bell? Why on earth would a bell scare her? I had to bite back a dozen questions. Bryony had had enough. Even I could see that. I made myself smile at her, took a step towards the door, and remembered the last time I’d been in this room.

There’d been a bell here then. Nick Bell. And he’d been watching her.

SAD. HOPELESS. DESPAIR
. These were the sorts of words you expected from a young woman who’d attempted suicide. Not
Watching me
. Not
Scared
. What on earth had been going on in Bryony’s life to lead her to such a drastic step? If she wasn’t either delusional or making it up for attention, this was a whole different ball game. And where did
Bell
fit in?

All the way back to my room, I desperately wanted someone to talk to. I’d always thought of myself as a solitary creature, not given to sharing. How wrong I’d been. In the police there was always someone to report back to, to bounce ideas off. For the first time in years I had too much going on in my head and no one to turn to.

Bell
didn’t necessarily mean Nick Bell. It wasn’t a common name, but even so I would not let that particular cat out of the bag just yet. There had to be other Bells in Cambridge. I opened up my laptop and started searching the university websites for someone else called Bell, looking first through the list of undergraduates, then postgraduates, then research fellows, fellows, honorary fellows, masters and staff. In a community of over twenty thousand people I found three others, two of them women. The third was a man called Harold whose brief biographical details told me he’d been retired for some time.

Someone in the town, maybe. Someone in a bar, restaurant,
bookshop?
Talaith could probably help me with the places where Bryony had hung out.

And yes, I knew exactly what I was doing. I didn’t want Nick Bell to be involved in whatever was going on here. I’d liked him.

When I’d drawn a complete blank with Bell, I turned to my other self-appointed task. Finding the names of the women Evi had half told me about that morning, the suicides who’d suspected they’d been raped.

Three academic years earlier, five young women and one man had taken their own lives, making it one of the worst years on record for student suicides. I spent some time searching through the university newspapers and journals and the more general Cambridge-based ones, and eventually found six names. Without Joesbury’s help, though, there was no way of knowing which one Evi had been talking about.

The previous year was an even harder task, with seven self-inflicted student deaths. I couldn’t even find all the names, so had no way of knowing who Evi’s two had been. The year before that, though, I struck lucky. The woman Evi had referred to as Patient D hadn’t died and I found her quite quickly. Danielle Brown, a twenty-year-old neurology student from Clare College, had tried to hang herself in woods just outside the city. She’d been spotted by some kids who’d cut her down and saved her life.

Danielle Brown. Still alive.

By three o’clock, I knew I couldn’t stay indoors much longer. For one thing, I was still feeling groggy, making it pretty difficult to concentrate. For another, I was getting less and less comfortable in my room. Maybe it was just the recollection of what Bryony had gone through, but something was making me edgy.

And with every hour that went by, my feeling of frustration was growing. I’d spent the better part of three days doing exactly what I’d been told to – immersing myself in university life, watching and observing. I’d spent several hours of each day just surfing, looking for evidence of Evi’s theory that some virtual subculture was damaging the collective mental health of the university. There was plenty on the net about suicide websites, but nothing I could find that was Cambridge-specific.

By quarter past three I was on the verge of going nuts. Normally, feeling like this I’d try to shake off the sluggishness with sixty or more lengths, but I hadn’t discovered the pool or begun to work out the timetable. I decided I was well enough to risk a run.

I changed, took a look at the map and was about to head for the river when I remembered my trip to the industrial estate the previous day and the riverside public footpath I’d noticed. Another quick check of the map told me it was a four-mile circular walk close to one of the Cam’s tributaries. As good a place as any for a late-afternoon run.

At first it was hard work, maybe for half a mile I struggled, but I soon found a rhythm. It’s all in the breathing, running any distance. Get your breathing under control and you can more or less keep going till your strength gives up. For someone of my age with my fitness, that can be several hours. And as I ran I couldn’t help but think about Bryony’s strange scribbled message.

Someone was watching her. Someone was scaring her. Real fears or just the imaginings of someone semi-delusional? She wouldn’t be the first disturbed young woman to invent a stalker as a cry for attention. And was I right or wrong to suspect Nick Bell? Was it normal for GPs to visit patients in hospital? Once, maybe, but on the regular basis that Bell himself had admitted to? Somehow I didn’t think so.

Once I left the buildings behind, the landscape blanched. Grass crackled beneath my feet, iced-over puddles shattered like glass and trees sprinkled tiny ice-flakes over me like confetti as I passed beneath them.

I ran on, as the sun got lower in the sky, through ploughed fields and over stiles. For a mile or so I followed a small river that wound its way, serpent-like, through the meadows. Willow trees grew on either side and the water was lined with rushes that, as the sun cast out its colour, seemed to be made of polished copper.

After thirty minutes, I crossed the tiniest of footbridges and knew I was heading back. I’d covered the better part of a mile when, some distance ahead, I thought I could see the large, corrugated roofs of industrial-type buildings. I was approaching the estate
again
from the opposite side from where I’d parked. As I climbed the wooden stile into the next field, I saw it was closer than I’d thought. Maybe another half-mile. From this direction I could see a much older brick building. It looked Victorian, and derelict. Like an old factory, or possibly a foundry.

Then it happened. Quite literally out of the blue, the very last thing I’d have expected. One second I was running along, conscious that my pace had slowed and that sweat was trickling down between my shoulder blades. The next, a high-pitched screeching took me completely by surprise. Some instinct made me look up. About a hundred yards ahead, flying low and heading my way, was a large bird.

I wasn’t too alarmed at first, but as the bird drew closer, screaming all the time, I found myself slowing down, as though putting off the moment when we’d reach each other. I looked up, just as it passed directly overhead, low enough for me to make out dappled brown breast feathers, estimate that its wingspan was about three feet, and see yellow scaled talons.

I turned, fully expecting to see the bird flying away. It was, but not for long. It was harder to see now because it was coming directly from the sun but there really wasn’t much doubt it had turned and was coming back.

OK, what do you do? You’re a couple of miles from shelter, there’s no one else around and a large bird of prey attacks you. Any terms of reference for that? Because I hadn’t. Knowing the stupidity of trying to outrun a bird, especially a big one, that’s exactly what I did. I felt the rush of wind that could even have been physical contact as the bird passed overhead again.

What the hell was going on here? Birds didn’t attack people. Had I fallen asleep at my desk and woken up in a Hitchcock movie? I glanced up. OK, I needed a plan. Fast. To my left was a wired fence, about four feet high, with woodland on the other side. The bird would almost certainly find it harder to attack me around trees than in open countryside.

It was coming back, lower, heading straight for my face. I turned and sprinted for the fence. The bird rose higher in the air, hovering above me, screeching like a banshee all the while. The trees were tall
but
slender. Luckily for me, they grew very close together and I really didn’t think the bird could fly down here.

It couldn’t and it didn’t try. But it wasn’t giving up easily. I could still hear it above the tree canopy, screeching, probably accusing me of all sorts of cowardice in bird-speak.

I made my way through the woods, ducking to avoid a low-hanging branch, and after about five minutes came into a small clearing. In the centre were the remains of a campfire. Kids sneaking out to drink cheap booze and smoke dodgy cigarettes was my first assumption. Except there were no obvious signs that teenagers had been here. Teenagers are messy; they don’t party and go home via the recycling bins. Yet there was nothing here but the blackened remains of a fire.

On the other side of the clearing was a narrow track and I made for it with relief. To my surprise, I found the path was lit. To either side of it, at five-yard intervals, alternating from the left side to the right, were small lamps. In brighter light I’d hardly have noticed them, but as the daylight got weaker they began to glow. They were solar powered, not dissimilar to the ones I had at home. Which meant they had to be wired up to panels. I walked to the tree nearest the lamp I was standing by. Sure enough, a thin covered wire ran up the trunk, going up higher than I could see.

Installing solar lights in a wood in the middle of nowhere was an expensive operation. And why would you light up a path leading to a clearing?

It was difficult to be sure in the growing gloom but I had a feeling I was coming to the end of the woodland. Through the trees ahead of me and to my left, I caught glimpses of large buildings. To my right was the field where the footpath lay and that was the obvious way home, but I was willing to bet the hawk from hell would have better night vision than I had. Better to get among the buildings, keep close to shelter and make my way back to the car.

I was still pretty jumpy by this stage so when something sounded behind me I spun round like I’d been shot. Nothing I could see, but woodlands are full of tiny creatures. Branches fall from trees, sometimes things just crack for no reason. No need to be alarmed, and walking backwards through a thick tangle of brambles, nettles
and
tough ground elder probably wasn’t a great idea. I turned back to face the way I was going.

And thought I might die of fright.

Directly in front of me, not ten yards away, a human figure hung by the neck from a tree. A split second later I realized it wasn’t a real person. It was just a large rag doll.

I moved closer. The doll was about three feet high. Its arms and legs seemed to have been made from a creamy-coloured cotton. It wore a yellow dress, stained by rain, mildew and bird droppings. Matching fabric had been sewn around its feet to simulate shoes. Its hands had been painted. Its hair was made from orange wool, twisted either side of its face in two plaits. Both were tied with large yellow bows. Its face was grotesque. A huge, grinning, misshapen mouth, heavy brows and fierce black eyes. A massive scar ran down the right cheek. This was no child’s toy: this had been made to scare. And it worked.

I made my way round the tree, giving the hanging figure a wide birth, suddenly feeling that a second encounter with a territorial bird might not be such a bad idea. Definitely not a bad idea, because the rag doll wasn’t the only thing hanging by the neck in these woods. Directly in front of me was an animal, swinging gently as though someone had given it a playful tap not moments before.