Ben arrives in the woods before first light. He knows that police tape doesn’t always deter people from a crime scene, and that sometimes it can do the very opposite and attract the curious or downright nosy, but it’s clear as he climbs the trail from the car park that, so far at least, people have chosen to stay away after the gruesome weekend discovery. He can’t blame them. He’s not a superstitious man, but as he tramps through the fallen leaves, the cold air pulling at the lapels of his coat, he feels the eerie disquiet of the place, the lingering sensation that something bad has happened here, like the low, rumbling aftershocks of an earthquake still hanging in the air. He’d steer clear, too, if he didn’t have a daughter as a potential suspect and a nagging hunch to follow.
Dry twigs and the hollow husks of beech nuts crack beneath his boots as he makes his way up to the quarry basin. He navigates his guilt as he walks. He shouldn’t be here. It’s a clear breach of his orders from Khan; though Ben, if he were being pedantic, could argue that the Chief hadn’t specifically told him to stay out of the woods. He was off the case, sure, but did that mean he couldn’t take a scenic walk in his own leisure time? Just a quick look around, he tells himself, and then he’ll be gone. If nothing else, he’ll feel better knowing he’s tied up a loose end.
He’d printed the amateur cavers’ map back at Chrissie’s and studying it now by torchlight, he sees half a dozen entrances marked across the woods, all leading into a series of old quarry tunnels zigzagging below the escarpment. It would take days to trace them all, but he’s not planning to investigate all of them. If Jasmine and Connor had seen someone lurking near the party, then it would make most sense to check the cave entrance nearest to the location of the student gathering. It would be the obvious place for a predator to hide when the boys went in search of their ‘watcher’.
He knows it’s a long shot, and perhaps his hunch about DC Crawford’s attention to detail was unfair; perhaps the man had been thorough in his examination of the cave entrances. Still, anything that could help with the case – and yes, anything that might help Ellie – had to be worth a second look.
As faint light begins to spread across the woodland, creeping between the fretted branches of the trees and painting the landscape in the muted brown and orange hues of autumn, Ben reorients himself. He navigates his way to the upper lip of the quarry and studies his surroundings. Up here on the basin rim, the trees stand like silent spectators peering over the edge, thick roots clawing and spilling to hold the precarious earth in place. A dense understorey of bracken, brambles and ferns sprawls at Ben’s feet. Looking down into the quarry, Ben fights the familiar, swaying threat of his vertigo.
It’s hard to imagine an entry point into the earth here, but there is something: a faint line stamped into the greenery, disappearing away between the trees. He takes a few steps forward and frowns. Is it a path? He’s not sure. Perhaps just a fox trail, but he plants his feet carefully and follows the tentative line a short distance, clambering over tree roots, tangled brambles and rocks.
After a hundred metres or so, Ben reaches a rocky surface, rising as a sheer stone wall in front of him. He frowns, wondering if he’s read the map wrong, beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t climb down and regain his bearings, when the tree canopy shifts overhead and a thin light falls onto the stone where it catches on something silver glinting in the rockface. The sight of it makes Ben’s chest thump.
Moving closer, he finds a security grille, aged with dirt and rust, fixed in place across an old tunnel entrance. He shines his torch through the bars and sees a dark hollow carved out beneath the rocky overhang, before it narrows and burrows away into blackness. Above him, the weight of rock and earth feels oppressive. He experiences a wave of claustrophobia at the thought of climbing into the dark void and travelling down through its underground chambers. But there is something there, something grey slumped on the cavern floor, just beyond the reach of his torch beam.
Ben rattles the metal grille and feels it shift in his hands. It doesn’t lift, but it wants to. Ben can feel it. The fixings aren’t as solid as they should be. Remembering the potholers’ chatroom tips, he studies the security grille more closely. One of the bolts is missing completely, so that the barrier is held in place solely by its hinges and a single fat screw in the lower right corner. This one, he finds, twists easily. He doesn’t even need the tools he’s brought. He unscrews it with his fingers until it slides off and lies loose in the palm of his hand. This time, when he tugs at the grate, it swings up easily on rusty hinges, revealing the dark space beyond.
The air is heavy with the fug of damp stone and soil. With the fragrance comes an odd prickling sensation running from his scalp to his spine. He climbs through the opening and sweeps the chamber with his torch. The space is low and cavernous, only just room to stand before it drops dramatically, low jagged rock pressing down as the tunnel falls away into the earth. From somewhere deeper comes the sound of trickling water. He takes several steps forward, crouching lower, his eye drawn to the objects hidden in the shadows.
A pile of white ash sits beneath the overhang; nearby the blackened stumps of logs lie scattered, not quite burned through. There’s a grimy sleeping bag, lumpy and twisted, lying in one corner, a half-filled plastic water carrier and a scratched tin cup. Further away, there’s the torn cardboard of a cereal box and several brown, discarded apple cores. Someone has been camping out, using the cave as a base. Kids? Possibly. A homeless person, sleeping rough? More likely.
The beam of his torch passes back over the detritus, his gaze catching on the red ‘K’ of the cereal box logo. Something rattles in his memory. Cereal boxes. A shrill, indignant voice. It comes to him: Mrs Kerridge standing in the police station, complaining about a dishevelled shoplifter. Filthy bugger… he just grabbed the cereal right off the shelf and ran.
As he lifts the light to take in the rest of the space, he lets out an exclamation. ‘What the hell?’ The torch almost slips from his grip. He fumbles to retrieve it before sweeping the beam back across the low ceiling.
Painted across the cavern walls are words and figures scrawled in thick black streaks. A series of childish caricatures – girls, he realises, with triangular dresses and long hair – dancing beside a diatribe of words daubed over and over across the rock. PUNISH. DESTROY. REPENT.
With his pulse jackhammering in his ears, he moves to the sleeping bag and prods it with the toe of his trainer. His foot connects with something small but solid beneath the fabric. Lifting it tentatively, he sees fragments of pink plastic. He frowns. Olivia Easton’s anxious face returns to him. She won’t go anywhere without it. An iPhone. Rose gold case. If it’s the girl’s phone, it’s in pieces now.
Ben turns to leave, eager to call in his discovery, keen not to interfere any further with the evidence strewn about the cave, when he hears a noise echoing in the tunnel. There’s a scuffling sound followed by the trickle of small rocks scattering across the ground, sounds which make the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen.
He swings the torch, the light catching movement in the shadows. A dark form. The glow of something white and bright. Two eyes flashing in the dark, before they’re gone. ‘Stop!’ he shouts. ‘Police.’
But whoever it is isn’t stopping. They are moving fast, retreating further into the deep tunnel.
Ben’s first instinct is to follow, but remembering the tangled spaghetti-scrawl of tunnels marked on the map, he doesn’t fancy his chances. He knows the shafts beneath the escarpment twist and splinter deep underground. It’s too dangerous to pursue his suspect alone. How could he possibly find them, let alone apprehend them? As much as he wants to play the hero, he knows what he must do.
Leaving everything where it is, he scrambles out through the grate into the muted morning and checks his phone for a signal. Nothing.
Cursing, he slips and slides his way back down the narrow trail and across the quarry basin, until one bar flashes on his phone. It’s enough. With his adrenalin still pumping, he hits speed dial.
Khan’s voice, when he answers, is sleepy, as if he’s caught him mid-yawn. ‘Chase. Before you start, I know you’re worried but she’s—’
‘Chief,’ Chase cuts him off, ‘listen. I’ve found something – someone – hiding out in the stone tunnels near the quarry.’
‘You’re in the woods?’ Khan is immediately alert, his voice grave.
‘You can reprimand me later. But there’s evidence everywhere. A camp. Sarah’s phone. We need a search team now. Officers. Dogs. Trust me, Chief, you need to come. Now.’