‘I know,’ her sister agreed, appeased and complacent. ‘He’s adorable.’ Celia let out a little sigh. ‘I wish he could stay like this forever.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘They’re so sweet when they’re babies.’
‘I bet you can’t wait until he starts talking.’
Celia laughed. ‘He’s only six months old.’
‘I know. It’s so strange to think he’ll be walking around and talking in a few years. Oops,’ she added. ‘I think he just did something in his nappy.’
As her sister took the baby from Geraldine, she felt an unexpected sensation of loss as the small bundle was lifted out of her arms.
18
Molly had never been to York before, although she had been to London, so going to a big city was not exactly a new experience for her. But she had never been homeless before, and she was not quite sure where to go or what to do. Once she had found a toilet in a pub, her most pressing needs were food and shelter and, most importantly, staying safe. She was not sure whether to be pleased or worried to discover she was by no means the only homeless person in the city. She passed several rough sleepers as she walked around, and saw that most of them had sleeping bags and blankets, as well as backpacks. She was thankful she had brought her padded jacket but that was not enough protection and on her first night, although the weather had been dry, the cold had forced her to keep moving. She stayed in the side streets, scared of the noisy drunks and raucous women out on hen nights who travelled in packs and were too drunk to reason with. As a girl on her own, it was definitely best to avoid them, and she kept away from other people as far as possible, aware that a solitary man could pose just as much of a threat as a gang of revellers.
Crossing a quiet square she spotted a bench but before she could sit down, a group of men fell out of a pub across the way, singing and shouting. In a panic, she slipped into a narrow alleyway, out of sight. Just then it began to rain and she clambered into a recess with a raised step where she could shelter, hidden from view. She was too cold to sleep, but if she could only get hold of a sleeping bag this might be a place where she could spend the night, at least until she sorted herself out with a job and a proper place to live. Drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, she pulled her jacket around her and allowed herself to relax for the first time since she had left home. Her situation was as dire as before, but at least she was safe for the night, alone at last and hidden away in an alcove in a deserted alleyway.
And then, in the darkness of the alleyway, she heard someone cough.
Instantly alert, she froze, straining to listen for any other sound of life. Someone must be walking along the passageway, but however attentively she listened, she could not hear footsteps. She held her breath, afraid to stir. There could be a drunk in the alleyway who might attack her. Whoever it was, she had no way of escaping, enclosed as she was on three sides by brick walls. Her ledge had become a trap. Minutes passed like hours, stretching the silence. Whoever had coughed near her hideout must have gone. After a while, Molly began to relax.
And then she heard it again: a faint cough.
It came from the same direction as before, along the alley towards Back Swinegate. Whoever was coughing there was not moving, which suggested they were injured or else hiding, like her. Either way, knowing that made their presence seem less intimidating. Holding her breath, she shifted forwards, inching towards the edge of the alcove where she was hiding. Peering out, she saw only the empty passageway but on the wall opposite, a few feet further along, just on the bend, she saw the outline of a second recess. Another rough sleeper had taken refuge in the alleyway. She hoped he – or she – would not object to sharing the quiet passageway at night. Faintly uneasy, she pulled herself to the back of her alcove, out of sight, and waited for the morning. In spite of her circumstances, she was so tired that she nodded off a few times. There was little point in listening out for anyone approaching. If someone did come along, she could only try to keep perfectly still and hope they went away without discovering her cowering there, out of sight.
Once the sun came up, everything seemed very different. Pulling herself forward she slipped down off her ledge. Instead of returning to St Sampson’s Square, she continued in the other direction, walking towards Back Swinegate. It was time to face the other occupant of Nether Hornpot Lane. When she reached the alcove in the opposite wall, she saw an old man pulling himself into a sitting position. Oblivious to her approach, he was clearly startled to see her. An expression of fear flickered across his wizened face. Encouraged, she stepped forward and he held out a hand.
‘I haven’t got any money, more’s the pity,’ she told him.
‘Who are you?’ the old man asked in a quavering voice. ‘What do you want? Go away, go away.’
‘It’s OK,’ she replied. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I’m the same as you. We’re neighbours.’
The old man frowned, and shook his head.
‘I slept in the alcove over there last night,’ she explained. ‘My name’s Molly.’
‘Go away, go away,’ he repeated, scowling at her.
She did not mind. If he wanted to be left alone that suited her. As long as he did not bother her they could coexist quite peacefully in Nether Hornpot Lane, at least until the really cold weather set in. When that happened, with any luck the old man would know where they could go to find shelter. At his age, he could not be intending to sleep rough through the winter.
Making a mental note of the place where she had spent the night, Molly set off to hunt for a sleeping bag. Several shops sold them, but she did not have enough money to buy one, so she settled for a thick navy blanket that she found in a charity shop. It was not ideal, but it was better than nothing and she was cautiously pleased with her purchase. Not only would the blanket keep her warm, but it was dark enough to conceal her at night. Having spent the last of her money on food and water, she climbed into her alcove and settled down for the night. The next day she would pluck up her courage and talk to some of the rough sleepers she had seen as she walked around, and learn where they found their food. She had seen some of them begging on the street, but that was not for her. She was going to find a job. In the meantime, while she was looking for work, she still had to eat.
19
The second occasion was not as exciting as the first. For a start he had done this before, so this time there was no sickening fear that he would be unable to see it through. It was amazing how differently he felt about everything, once he knew he was capable of killing. It was like stepping through a door into a new world of possibilities where he could do whatever he wanted, and no one could stand in his way ever again. Acknowledging his new identity as a killer, it was hard to believe how rapidly the shift had occurred from planner to perpetrator. Whatever happened from now on, that change could never be reversed.
Apart from his newfound confidence in his own abilities, the task was also less daunting because his next victim was old. The risk of him fighting back was negligible. Even so, despite the frailty of his quarry, he took nothing for granted. It was important to keep his wits about him. The old man might yet surprise him but even if he turned out to be as feeble as he looked, someone else might appear at just the wrong moment, when the noose was already in place and tightening around the scraggy neck. It would be impossible to pass that off as a prank. If he was caught in the act of killing and could not eliminate the witness, he would have no option but to leg it. For months he had been running along the river bank every morning, training for just such an eventuality. But after selecting his next victim so carefully, he thought he would be unlucky to get caught.
He followed the old man through lightly falling rain, keeping a reasonable distance behind him. From Spurriergate they went along Feasegate and diagonally across St Sampson’s Square. It was growing dark. The streets were more or less empty of people scurryi
ng home along wet pavements, and only a few cars went by, their drivers staring straight ahead through falling rain and swishing windscreen wipers. No one paid any attention to a decrepit old tramp, or to a figure in a hooded jacket walking not far behind him. Just before Finkle Street the old man vanished into Nether Hornpot Lane, a curved snickelway running north from St Sampson’s Square to Back Swinegate.
Slipping into the narrow lane, the old man stopped by a covered alcove where he had been sleeping for the past few weeks. Having lowered himself gingerly down on to the wide step, he glanced around. He did not notice a figure pressed against the brick wall just out of sight around a bend in the lane. Unaware an attack on his life was imminent, the old man leaned back against the locked door behind him and lifted his legs on to the step, using his hands to assist him in raising them, one at a time, and letting out a breathy ‘ouf’ sound with each movement. Once in the shelter of the recess, he set about making himself comfortable, removing his battered boots before wrapping his threadbare sleeping bag around him and wriggling inside it until he was satisfied.
Meanwhile the watcher waited, pressing himself against the wall, as the old man settled himself for the night. It was a quiet place, protected from the wind and all but a hard driving rain, and secluded from prying eyes so the old man could get up and piss against the wall during the night. There was no artificial lighting along the lane, which was bordered by brick walls on both sides, and it was illuminated only by the moon overhead. In the absence of any street lamps, under an overcast sky the lane was dark.
The square had been deserted as he crossed it on his way to the lane, but he was not going to take any chances. The element of surprise was vital to his success. If his victim yelled loudly enough, the outcry might attract the attention of people passing by at either end of the passageway, along Back Swinegate or out in St Sampson’s Square. Although the pub was closed, and it was too late for many people to be wandering around, revellers were sometimes out on the streets of York until the small hours. Even in the rain there was no guarantee that the streets around the alleyway would remain empty for long.
As soon as the old man’s eyes closed, without making a sound the hidden figure darted forward from the shadows to crouch beside him and slip a red noose around his scraggy neck. If the old man had seen it coming maybe he would have put up a show of resistance. In his younger days perhaps he would even have proved a worthy opponent. But now he could barely shuffle along the street unaided, let alone put up a fight. If he had not been intending to end his life, the strangler might have felt sorry for the old man. He was a pathetic apology for a human being.
‘What –? What –?’ was all the frail victim managed to grunt as the noose tightened around his neck.
As if the attack was a cue, just at that instant the moon emerged from behind a cloud, lighting up the scene. Staring into the old man’s watery eyes, he tugged the noose tighter. Even his victim’s dying gurgles were feeble, and he only managed to scrabble at the noose with his gnarled fingers for a few seconds before his arms flopped down at his sides, his head rolled forwards and he lay still. It was over very quickly.
The killer could not afford to linger there for long. The lane appeared deserted but someone else might come along at any moment. Meanwhile, the light, bright blue sheen of the sky was turning navy, making it easy for him to move around the streets unobserved. Sliding the noose from around his victim’s bruised neck, he slipped it in his pocket and straightened up. There was no need to panic. The body was unlikely to be discovered until the next day and even then no one would pay much attention to the scruffy corpse. He stood perfectly still for an instant, gazing down at the results of his handiwork: a shapeless mass, black in the darkness. With a scowl, he turned and strode away, towards Back Swinegate. The job was complete and, thanks to his planning, everything had gone smoothly, as he had known it would. A man’s life had just been snuffed out, and no one even knew about it.
20
Wrapping herself in her blanket, Molly wriggled around trying to get comfortable. Luckily, she had managed to find her way back to Nether Hornpot Lane before the rain had started. With her knees pulled right up to her chest, and the edge of her covering tucked underneath her buttocks, she was able to keep her blanket dry. She was actually quite snug beneath it. The blanket had a musty smell, but she was only using it as a temporary measure until she managed to find a job and somewhere to live. Her immediate problem was going to be finding food. What little money she had brought with her had all gone. Somehow she had to find a job where no one asked questions about who she was or where she was living. She had a few ideas, but there was nothing she could do until the morning so she tried to focus on getting some rest.
Suddenly she sat up. For a second she had no idea what had disturbed her, but her heart was pounding and her skin was prickling as though she had received an electric shock. Assuming she had been woken by a nightmare, she tucked her blanket under her out of the rain before lying down and closing her eyes again. All at once she heard a strange noise. She could not work out exactly what it was. It sounded as though an animal was choking nearby, a dog, or a rodent. It occurred to her that her elderly neighbour might be ill. He had hardly looked healthy when she had seen him close up. Perhaps he was having a heart attack. Whatever was wrong with him, he sounded in need of assistance.
Dithering about whether she ought to go and see if he was all right, she sat up cautiously and considered her options. She would not know what to do if the old man was ill, and her phone had run out of charge so she could not even summon help. She could try and find someone who was able to call an ambulance, but on balance she decided it was probably better not to get involved. The old man was not her responsibility. They had not even met, not properly, and when she had tried to approach him, he had told her to go away. He might not appreciate her interference.
But she could not stifle her curiosity. Cautiously, she inched her way to the edge of her ledge and peeked out. In a shaft of moonlight she spotted a hooded figure crouching on the ground beside the recess on the opposite side of the alleyway. His arms were waving, twisting something, while in front of him the gurgling sound grew fainter. She waited, scarcely daring to breathe, and at last the noise stopped. The figure straightened up and glanced around, shoving something in his pocket as he did so. Unnerved by his furtive manner, she pressed herself against the wall of her recess out of his line of vision. In the pale moonlight she had been able to see enough to know that he was not a rough sleeper. His shoes were shiny, and his jeans looked new. Beneath his hood, she had caught a brief glimpse of a clean-shaven face as he looked around.
If he had happened to glance over at her alcove, he might have spotted her shrouded in darkness while she peered out along the passage, but he did not look in her direction. Moving only her eyes, she looked out again and saw that the hooded stranger was striding away towards Back Swinegate. Shaken and confused, she gulped in a lungful of air before bursting into tears. She was used to living in fear but at least she had known where Baz was most of the time, and had been able to avoid the worst of his tempers. This stranger striking in darkness was an anonymous threat, and far more menacing.
She did not sleep again that night, but sat watching for the hooded man to return. He did not reappear, and no one else disturbed the quiet of the alleyway. As soon as the sun rose, she rolled up her blanket and forced it under the flap of her backpack so she could carry it with her. Some of the rough sleepers left their sleeping bags on their steps, but she was not confident her blanket would be safe from thieves. She had no money to buy another one, and the weather would soon turn cold. Besides, after what she had seen, she had no intention of returning to Nether Hornpot Lane. Scurrying along the passageway, away from St Sampson’s Square, she glanced into the alcove on the opposite wall and felt her jaw tighten as her fears were confirmed.
The old man lay very still, his tongue sticking out between his lips
and his pale eyes gazing blankly up at her. She stared at him in terror. Specks of blood dotted the whites of his eyes that seemed to bulge from their sockets as though he was searching for a breath of life. She wanted to run away, but she could not tear her gaze from the disgusting face lying motionless at her feet. With a trembling finger she reached down to the old man as though to make sure he was really dead. Just in time, she jerked her arm back to avoid touching the body and leaving a trace of her own DNA. She had seen a dead body once before, but that had been a very different occasion. Her grandmother had looked composed, neatly dressed in a long white gown, with her hair brushed back off her white face and her hands neatly folded over her chest. After an orderly passing, an air of serenity had hung over her coffin. The death of the old man had been a violent disruption of natural order, more shocking than the fact of death itself.
Baz hit her mother whenever he lost his temper, which happened with sickening regularity. He had only once hit her in the face. As a rule he was careful to punch her where the bruises would be concealed by her clothes. But Molly had known exactly what was going on. It would be impossible to live under the same roof as Baz and her mother, and remain oblivious to their frequent yelling and whimpering, or fail to witness the repeated physical assaults. By contrast, the attack on the old man in Nether Hornpot Lane had been unexpected and silent. Molly had heard no raised voices, and had witnessed no sudden rage resulting in loss of control. The stranger had simply and deliberately assaulted a rough sleeper, seemingly without any provocation. And while Baz had tormented her mother for what had felt like a long time, leaving her bruised and battered, the attack on the old man had been swift and deadly.
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