Cruel Minds (27 page)

“I give Meadow Pines a one star rating,” she croaked. “I know who you are now.”

Before Emily could respond, Helen was stretchered away and lifted into the waiting helicopter. Turning around, she saw Jerome watching her.

“What did she say?” he asked.

Emily didn’t answer. Instead, she stared out across the meadow, into the darkness of the trees, wanting nothing more than to go home.

MEADOW PINES MASSACRE

SEVERAL DEAD & INJURED AT WEEKEND RETREAT

By Jack Portland

The quiet communities of the New Forest were left reeling in shock last night following a spate of bizarre and gruesome murders at Meadow Pines, a local retreat specialising in digital detox. The retreat’s owner, Pamela Hardy, 44, has been charged with the killings, while Melody Jackson, 25, a regular visitor to Meadow Pines is also currently in police custody. Details of her involvement have not been released. Hardy’s daughter, Marcia, 22, has also been implicated but was pronounced dead on scene, after reportedly taking her own life.

The victims have been named as Oscar Jansen, 47, Samuel Turner, 26, and Franklyn Hobbes, 24. Turner, a chef at Meadow Pines, is thought to have been in a relationship with Marcia Hardy. Hobbes, who had a long history of mental health issues, disappeared in April of last year. Jansen, a private investigator, was hired by the Hobbes family to find him. Franklyn’s mother, Darcy Hobbes, 61, said, ‘He often goes missing for periods of time, sometimes months, but he always comes home eventually.’

Although police have yet to issue an official statement citing the reasons behind the killings, early reports indicate that a shallow grave containing the decomposed remains of Franklyn Hobbes was uncovered by guest, Emily Swanson, 27. Sergeant Wells of Lyndhurst constabulary has praised Swanson, a former teacher, and fellow guest Jerome Miller, 28, for their help in uncovering what he described as, ‘a tragic bloodbath that didn’t need to happen.’

Police have also issued arrest warrants for known criminals Benjamin White, 36, and Sylvia White nee Parsons, 35, who are believed to have robbed follow guests during the chaos.

Journalist Helen Carlson was reviewing the retreat for Modern Living magazine when the murders took place. Turn to pages 3&4 to read her exclusive eye-witness report, with details on how she narrowly escaped becoming Meadow Pines’ fifth victim.

H
arriet Golding didn’t look well. Perched on the sofa, Emily watched the old woman with concern. Beside her, Jerome munched on biscuits and drank tea. Harriet’s middle-aged son, Andrew, sat in the armchair, adopting his usual pose, which involved a weighty looking book pressed up to his face. Occasionally, he would glance over the top, his eyes widening as Emily and Jerome relayed the details of their weekend. Harriet had gasped and
oohed
and
ahhed
.

When the whole terrible story was told, she sucked in a breath, then coughed and spluttered. Pulling a handkerchief from her cardigan sleeve, she dabbed the corners of her mouth.

“Well!” she said, when she’d recovered enough to speak. “Doesn’t much sound like a relaxing weekend to me. And look at your eye!”

Emily touched her face. The swelling had decreased but now dark purple bruising bloomed around her eye and temple.

Harriet tutted. “What an awful thing to happen! I always had my suspicions about all those tree huggers. It ain’t natural, is it? Flouncing around the woods, trying to float on clouds and what-not. They must all be on drugs!”

“It’s not very fair to tar everyone with the same brush now, Harriet,” Jerome said. “I happen to believe that meditation can do wonderful things for the mind. Even if it’s just shutting your eyes for ten minutes and letting your thoughts go.”

“Rubbish,” said Harriet.

“You’re such a cynic. I’m actually thinking about taking yoga classes again. I think we’d all agree I could do with a little more focus in my life,” Jerome said.

“And your own roof over your head,” Harriet added. “And a job.”

Emily arched an eyebrow at Jerome. “You’ve changed your tune. I would have thought after this weekend the last thing you’d want is to delve back into the realms of the unconscious.”

“Well, what can I say? I’m a man of surprises. Besides, I spoke to Daniel this morning. We’re going to meet next week. I’ve offered to show him some basic poses to get him started.”

“I bet you have.”

Harriet muttered disapprovingly under breath, pulled her blanket from her knees, and draped it over the arm of the chair. “This place drives me insane. Too bloody cold in winter and too bloody hot in summer. I can’t win. ‘Ere Andrew, can’t you open a window or something?”

Andrew’s voice floated over his book, flat and disinterested. “It’s stuck.”

Grumbling, Harriet returned her gaze to Emily, whose brow was pulled down so tightly over her eyes she was likely to bring on a headache. “Are you all right, dear? Who’s put a bee in your bonnet?”

“I’m fine,” Emily said. But it was a lie. She was far from fine. It had been two days since she and Jerome had been allowed to return to London with an assurance from Sergeant Wells that CID would more than likely be in touch for further questioning. In that time, shock had turned to confusion, then exploded with anger.

Emily stood up from the sofa and paced over to the window. She stared down at the alley far below, then across at the vista of tall buildings, which sprawled into the distance as far as the eye could see. She turned back to the room. Harriet and Jerome were staring at her.

“It’s just not right,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “A young girl like that dead because of a ridiculous loyalty to her mother. That woman didn’t give a damn about her.”

“But she was her mother. People will go to extraordinary lengths to protect their loved ones,” Harriet said.

“Even if their loved ones don’t deserve it?”

“People want to feel accepted. They want to feel loved. Even if that means giving up the things they believe in. It don’t make it right. It’s just how it is sometimes. Loneliness can make a person desperate.”

Jerome nodded. “Just like Melody. Desperation has her on the way to prison as an accessory to murder. I suppose at least she won’t be alone anymore.”

Emily felt the weight in her chest grow heavier. It was all such a waste of life, of time. In some ways, she felt sorry for all of them. For Franklyn, whom the police had ascertained had had a long history of mental illness; for Oscar, who had just been doing the job he’d been paid to do by Franklyn’s worried family; for Sam, who’d let his emotions get the better of him and instantly signed his own death warrant; for Melody, whose life had been so empty she’d made serious errors of judgement; for Marcia, who’d spent a lifetime under her mother’s control, who’d been left alone to deal with the traumas of sexual and physical assault, who’d been isolated, manipulated, coerced, emotionally blackmailed, and who, riddled with guilt, had finally taken her own life.

And what of Pamela? Should she be pitied when she was accountable for the shocking deaths at Meadow Pines? What had it all been for? To save a flagging business? To prevent bankruptcy? Emily couldn’t believe that and she suspected there was much more to Pamela’s motivations than was apparent.

“What about the lady who got hurt? The writer?” Harriet asked, her limbs creaking as she reached for her cup of tea. “Is she all right?”

Emily nodded. “She was practically phoning in her story from the helicopter.”

“You didn’t see the newspapers?” Jerome asked Harriet. He bounced up and down like an excited puppy.

“All the newspapers is good for is lighting fires.”

“Well, give credit where credit’s due, Helen wrote a great story. She made us sound like real heroes, didn’t she, Em? And after all that prying, trying to find out who you were. Maybe she wasn’t such a hack after all.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Emily said.

“She could have written about what—” Emily’s glare stopped him in his tracks. “But she didn’t, is all I’m saying.”

Harriet’s eyes shifted between the two of them.

“Well, who knows, maybe I can use this newfound fame to get a decent acting gig for once.”

Emily gave him a warning glance as she moved away from the window and towards the door. “Having your name in the papers isn’t necessarily a good thing, Jerome.”

She said goodbye to Harriet and Andrew, then headed back to her apartment. Jerome followed soon after.

“What is it?” he asked. “I mean apart from the mass murder and almost getting killed again?”

Emily looked away, swinging her shoulders.

“I just can’t stop thinking about how all of this could have been avoided. Why couldn’t Marcia have stood up to her mother? Why couldn’t she have just said no? And Melody—what the bloody hell was she thinking? Those people didn’t care about her. Not really. And now she’s going to prison for them.”

Jerome scuffed his shoe against the carpet. “Like you said, she was lonely. Maybe a little unstable too. She had to have been feeling pretty awful about her life to have gone to such extremes, just to feel part of something. You can’t blame someone for feeling alone.”

“No, but you can blame them for covering up someone’s death. What Franklyn did to Marcia was one of the worst things a person can do. And yes, Sam lost control of his feelings and yes, he made a terrible mistake, but it should have all ended that day. Four people are dead now. Pamela and Melody will go to prison. Meadow Pines will close. It was all for nothing.”

She heaved her shoulders and for a moment, she felt so angry that curling her fist and driving it against a wall seemed like a good idea. Instead, she pinched her fingers together and took in a deep breath.

“I’m sure there’s some sort of twisted loyalty in the middle of it all, but you’re right,” Jerome nodded. “It has all the tones of a Shakespearean tragedy.”

Emily’s face softened. “How are you doing anyway?”

“Oh, you know—traumatised, terrified. Nothing several months of therapy and a vat full of whiskey won’t cure. Hey, at least I got a date out of it, right? How about you?”

Emily flinched. Her mind had flashed back to the lake. To disappearing into its murky depths.

“I almost gave up,” she said, looking up at Jerome. “I was sinking deeper and deeper. The water was filling my lungs and everything began to turn a sort of yellow. For a moment, I gave up trying to get back to the surface. I could hear a voice saying,
don’t bother. Just go with it. Close your eyes and sleep
. And for a moment, I listened to it. I thought, exactly what is waiting for me on the surface? What is better than being underneath in the darkness? It was peaceful down there. Calm. I didn’t have to worry about the past or the future. I didn’t have to think about Phillip Gerard, or my mother, or what people believed or didn’t believe. I was nothing. I’d ceased to exist. And for a moment, it felt like pure joy.”

“But you came back up,” Jerome said, his eyes glistening.

Emily nodded. “I did, didn’t I?”

“There must have been a reason for that.”

Emily nodded. “In spite of all the mayhem, I decided I quite like my life after all.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Jerome said, a wicked smile on his lips. “Besides, drowning is never a good look—all that bloating...”

“The past is in the past. There’s nothing you can do to change that. And who knows what’s waiting for us in the future. So let’s just live our lives as they come.” Emily paused, mulling over her thoughts. “Perhaps I did learn something from my time at Meadow Pines after all.”

“Oh me too,” Jerome said, as they stared out the living room windows. The sun was sinking over the cityscape, burning through the pollution, casting the sky in an unnatural shade of neon tangerine.

“Oh yes, what’s that?”

“That I’m never leaving this magnificent city again.”

Emily smiled, showing her teeth. “Idiot.”

They watched the sunset for a while longer. Eventually, Jerome’s empty stomach lured him away to the nearest burger bar, a weekend of murder and mung beans having finally taken its toll.

Emily remained in the window, staying in the present, trying not to think about the future. But it was proving difficult. A spark of excitement had ignited in her heart and it longed to know what her life would bring next.

EMILY SWANSON WILL RETURN IN:

COLD HEARTS

(Sneak Peek coming up)

E
mily Swanson rang the doorbell, then sucked in a nervous breath. What was she doing here? She looked up at the house. It was a large but not sprawling affair, with latticed windows and white walls. The drive, which was wide enough to hold several cars, was currently empty, while a towering, evergreen hedgerow smudged out much of the quiet, suburban street.

Seconds passed. Shrugging off her backpack, Emily removed the letter that had arrived a few days ago, and checked the address: 112 Ford Road, Epsom, Surrey. She pressed the doorbell again.

Above her, the Friday morning sun was bold and bright. After an overcast July and a rainy August, September was turning out to be uncharacteristically hot. Closing her eyes, Emily took a moment to enjoy the warmth on her skin.

When she opened them again, she saw a woman smiling at her in the doorway.

“Diane Edwards?”

“You must be Emily.”

Emily was led through a carpeted hall and towards a spacious kitchen at the back of the house.

“Please sit down.” Diane Edwards gestured to the table and chairs in front of the large bay windows. “I’ll make some tea.”

Emily smiled politely, then turned to view the rear garden. An expanse of vibrant lawn, which was bordered by colourful flowerbeds, stretched out into the distance. A copse of trees stood at the far end, watching over the house. Beneath the table, Emily’s knee began to jig up and down. She wondered if it was too late to make her excuses and leave.

Diane Edwards returned with the tea tray. She was somewhat older than Emily’s twenty-seven years. Perhaps in her mid-forties. Where Emily’s hair was blonde and fell just above her shoulders, Diane’s was jet black and cropped. As she turned the cups over and reached for the teapot, she offered Emily a slight smile