Back-Slash

by Bill Kitson

  ‘Good Lord, you don’t mean Mar—?’

  ‘Careful, no names. Let’s just say someone we’ve upset.’

  ‘I see. I thought we’d got clear of the need for Brown.’

  ‘Far from it. The need is greater now than ever. It’s become obvious from certain other people’s reactions that our plans are in jeopardy. So I fear Brown will have more work to do.’

  ‘Is there no other way?’

  ‘Absolutely not. It isn’t a decision I took lightly, believe me.’

  ‘You must be sure nothing can be traced back to us.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet too?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s just that we’ve so much to lose, and we’re close to achieving all we set out for. I dread to think of things going wrong.’

  ‘Your trouble is you worry too much.’

  ‘Yours is that you don’t worry at all. One of us has to.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll leave you in charge of worrying. One more point. As things are at the moment, I think we ought to consider our own security more carefully.’

  ‘Sorry? I’m not with you.’

  ‘We’re approaching a critical stage in the operation and we can’t afford anything to go wrong. Even the slightest whisper of what we’re hoping to achieve would ruin the whole thing. I propose we abandon any procedural discussions over the telephone until matters are resolved. Unless it’s of the utmost urgency, only use the phone purely to arrange meetings.’

  chapter seven

  Lisa Andrews was weary. She couldn’t complain. Nash and Superintendent Edwards were working even longer hours than she was. On her drive from Helmsdale, and as she parked her car and walked across the car park towards her flat Lisa, was too tired, too preoccupied, to notice what was happening around her. In other circumstances she would have spotted the vehicle that had followed her at a discreet distance.

  She stopped outside the front door and fumbled through her bunch of keys, searching for the right one in the meagre illumination provided by the street light. ‘Good evening, Lisa.’ The voice was soft but it made her jump nonetheless.

  She spun round, instantly alarmed. ‘What are you doing here? What do you want?’ Her voice contained a rising note, of panic and anger combined.

  ‘Relax. I just want to talk to you. I thought we could at least behave like civilized human beings.’

  ‘Civilized, that’s a laugh. Civilized people don’t pester others and make a nuisance of themselves. Besides, they don’t shag their lover’s best friend.’

  ‘Lisa, I’m not going to stand here arguing the toss with you. You owe me. Half the stuff in that flat is mine by right. If I don’t get my share I’ll make your life a misery.’

  ‘I don’t know how you work that out. You’ve paid for none of it, so don’t come that game. I’ve told you before, you can piss off back to Leeds; you’re getting nothing from me.’

  Donald Smailes drew his arm back. A good slap might change her mind. Before he could strike, he felt his wrist gripped, then wrenched, then twisted behind his back. Then he felt himself being lifted by the arm alone. There was another slight twist and Smailes felt an excruciating pain leap from his wrist to his shoulder. He heard a popping sound from close to his collar bone. Screaming in agony, he squirmed to escape the grip, but the pain got instantly worse.

  ‘You heard what Lisa said. She told you to piss off. If you don’t, I’ll break your arm as well as dislocating your shoulder. Now, do you understand?’

  Donald had a brief glimpse of the man holding him. Then he was thrust away towards the gate. He squealed at the fresh bout of pain. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, don’t be a wimp. It’s only a dislocation.’

  They watched the injured man stumble down the street with the sound of his moans fading into the distance. Lisa took a step back as she turned to face Alan Marshall. ‘Thank you, but how did you happen along at the right time? How did you find out where I live?’

  ‘Easy. I followed you home.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’ The recent encounter had unnerved her. The apprehension in her voice showed.

  He smiled. ‘Not for that,’ he said a trifle obscurely. ‘The fact is, I’m in a bit of trouble and I need a favour.’

  Lisa eyed him suspiciously. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I need to find out the name and address of the registered keeper of a car.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ Lisa spluttered; then added, ‘why do you need to know?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. All I can say is it’s vital. A matter of life and death. Mine to be exact.’

  Lisa swung open the door and gestured him inside. ‘Upstairs, first floor, front,’ she commanded. He’d heard that tone before. He didn’t argue.

  She opened the flat door, flicked the lights on and pointed to an armchair. ‘Sit down.’ He sat down feeling helpless in the face of her determination. ‘Right! I’ve had a busy day, a very bad day. To cap it all I had to endure meeting that dickhead. You rescued me and I’m grateful. So go ahead with your story; talk.’

  Marshall tried once more. ‘If I give you a full explanation, you might arrest me for murder! To be exact, two murders.’

  ‘So, tell me. I’ll leave the handcuffs off while you explain. Everything!’

  It was no contest. Lisa held all the aces. What was more they both knew it. Marshall took a deep breath. ‘OK, first I’m going to tell you my real name. That’s only jumping the gun anyway. Within the next few days everyone will know it. My real name is Marshall, Alan Charles Marshall. The solicitor who was murdered in The Golden Bear was the principal witness at my trial, my wife’s lover. Reading between the lines, the way he and his lady friend were killed seems identical to the way Anna was murdered. I believe that was done to throw suspicion on me.

  ‘The first I heard of those murders was at lunchtime today. I was on Sir Maurice Winfield’s shoot. It was only a passing reference but it put the wind up me, made me wonder what was going on.’ Marshall paused, Lisa saw his face was sombre, troubled. ‘That was bad enough, but then I went home….’ He explained about his return to the cottage.

  Lisa studied him. ‘If you really are innocent you ought to give yourself up.’ She thought for a moment. ‘You reckon the man who attacked you committed these murders?’ Marshall nodded. ‘Then I need some proof. Show me the wound.’ He hesitated. ‘Look,’ Lisa insisted, ‘if you want my help you’ve got to give me some evidence. Something to make me trust you. Otherwise I’ll phone my boss right now. The only reason I’m not already on the phone is because I owe you for sorting that pillock Donald out.’

  He stood up and slid his jacket off, then his shirt, not without difficulty. Blood was beginning to seep through the dressing Shirley Dickinson had applied. Lisa nodded. ‘OK, I believe you. But, Alan – can I call you that?’ Marshall nodded. ‘You really ought to go see DI Nash. Mike’s a decent bloke; he’ll not rush to judge you. He won’t assume you’re guilty just because of what happened years ago. I admit things don’t look good for you, but I’m sure it’s the best thing to do.’

  Marshall looked alarmed. ‘No, not yet. I daren’t. Not after what happened last time. You don’t know the half of it, Lisa. When I was questioned about Anna’s murder, it was as if the police were on a mission to make sure I was convicted. Admittedly the evidence didn’t look good, but they didn’t take account of anything I said. And there were others too, people who lied in court. Neighbours who said we were rowing constantly. That just didn’t happen. That’s why I can’t trust the police. What I need is time to get well clear of here, try to work this out.’

  ‘You mean time to get away; to avoid being arrested.’

  ‘No, things are much worse than that. The police are the least of my worries.’

  He explained his theory. Lisa listened in appalled silence. Eventually she said, ‘It sounds like something from a gangster movie.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it’s all too real.’

  ‘What do you intend to
do? You can’t spend the rest of your life running and hiding from a killer and possibly the police?’

  ‘I’ve spent long enough hiding from a past that was none of my doing. I’ve lost years of my life. I’m not prepared to lose any more. Whatever happens, I’m not going back to hiding from it. OK, I might have to, short term. This is why I need the details of that car owner.’

  ‘I assume you’re about to ask me to use the police computer to find this out for you. There’s no way.’ After a moment’s silence Lisa asked, ‘Do you have any idea who might be behind this?’

  ‘Not the foggiest. I almost convinced myself Anna’s death was a chance killing. A robbery that got out of hand perhaps, but deep down I never believed it. I reckon whoever murdered Anna had a logical motive. I believe the killer is someone I know, or knew. That makes it even scarier, if that’s possible.’ He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. He looked up. ‘So now you know everything. Will you help me?’

  Lisa paused, staring straight at Marshall as she gathered her thoughts. She paced the floor, then sighed. ‘At this moment you’re a free man, not suspected of anything. Give me the number and I’ll see what I can do. But, I’m going to tell my boss what we’ve talked about. I won’t do it until tomorrow, I promise. I also want you to keep in touch; by phone or text or whatever.’

  Marshall agreed. He knew he’d no choice. ‘Phoning might not be easy. If I can’t phone, I’ll get someone else to. Probably the people who will be looking after my dog. I’ll not give you their names; it would compromise them and you. I’ll tell them how to identify themselves so you’ll know they’re the genuine article.’

  ‘OK, now tell me something.’

  ‘I’ve told you everything I know.’

  ‘Tell me what you did to Donald?’

  He was surprised at the question. ‘A friend of mine taught me the trick. I’ve never used it before, never had cause. He said if you lift someone with their arm straight, then twist, the shoulder will dislocate. I had my doubts, but it appears to work.’

  ‘It sounds as if you’ve some interesting friends.’

  After copying down Lisa’s phone numbers, Marshall left. When he’d gone, Lisa was plagued with doubt. She’d acted on instinct, on a whim she might regret. She’d made her decision so she’d stick to it, and to hell with the consequences. Marshall seemed a decent man. Decent men don’t slit people’s throats, no matter how strongly they’re provoked. Beside which, he’d sorted that worm Donald Smailes out. She decided to let things ride. Shelving her anxieties might not be so easy. Nor was she looking forward to her meeting with Nash tomorrow. She knew she’d be lucky to escape without being suspended from duty. All she could do was explain and hope Nash understood her reasons.

  Marshall drove back to the Dickinsons’ house with one eye on the rear view mirror, his ears attuned for the sound of a siren. It was with great relief that he pulled the Land Rover into the safety of their back yard. ‘I’ll need to get rid of that in the morning,’ he told Barry. ‘I’ll do it first thing.’

  He settled for the night in the Dickinsons’ spare room. Nell curled up on a blanket on the floor beside him. As he fell asleep he wondered if this would be the last decent night’s sleep he’d get for a while.

  The following morning the household was up early. Marshall took the Land Rover and parked it deep inside the forest at the end of a little-used ride, where he was reasonably sure it wouldn’t be found. After he returned, having given Nell a good walk, Shirley presented him with a plate of bacon and eggs.

  ‘When you’ve finished that I’ll re-do your dressings.’ She watched him start to eat before asking, ‘Why ditch the Land Rover? Won’t you need a car?’

  ‘I’ll have to rely on public transport. The Land Rover’s too well known. Once the police make the connection, both they and the killer will be on the look-out for it. They’ll be convinced I’ve got it. I want them to keep looking. They’ll be looking in the wrong place, which suits me.’

  He finished his breakfast and submitted to the discomfort of having his dressing changed before hurrying out to join Barry. His greatest regret was the look of accusation in the Labrador’s sad eyes at his desertion of her. As Barry drove him to Netherdale, Marshall checked that he’d given Lisa’s number to him. ‘Don’t worry, Alan. Shirley’s got it safe. Have you got our home number and my mobile too?’

  ‘Yes.’ Marshall patted the document case. ‘I’ll call as soon as I’ve found a bolt-hole. It’ll take me a day or two to make sure I’m safe.’

  Shirley had a moment’s panic as a shadow passed across the kitchen window, then realized it was the postman. Seconds later the doorbell rang. ‘Morning, Shirley, parcel for Barry. It’s to sign for I’m afraid. Everybody’s got something needs signing for this morning,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ve even got a registered letter for Woodbine Cottage. That’s the one at the end of that long track isn’t it? It must be over a year since I was out there. Not even junk mail, would you believe. Now all of a sudden the bloke’s got a registered letter. I didn’t even know his name until this morning.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re going to be doubly unlucky,’ Shirley told him with a smile. ‘I can save you a lot of wasted time and effort if you want. I’ll sign for this parcel of Barry’s first. He’s away early this morning. You’ll have no joy at Woodbine Cottage either. He’s gone off with Barry. If you want, I’ll sign for his letter as well; give it to him when they get back. It’ll save you another trip.’

  ‘Thanks, Shirley, you’re a pal.’

  Shirley examined the registered letter. After a quick glance she darted through to the kitchen, glancing at the clock en route. If she was lucky she might just be in time to catch Barry before he dropped Alan at Netherdale railway station. She dialled her husband’s mobile but heard the distinctive call alert ringing out in the hall.

  When Barry returned, Shirley was waiting at the kitchen door. ‘Did he get off safely?’

  ‘As far as I know. There were no screaming sirens before I left anyway. I didn’t hang about though. What’s that you’ve got in your hand?’

  Shirley showed him the envelope. ‘What do you make of that?’ Barry asked.

  ‘I think it proves we did the right thing. I admit I had my doubts about Alan’s story, but this suggests he was telling the truth.’

  Lisa was anxious. Nash and Ruth Edwards were discussing staffing rotas, trying to relieve the pressure on them. She wanted to speak to Mike, but while she waited she took a call from the fingerprint officer, who asked for Nash.

  ‘Sorry about the delay, forensic officers are as rare as flies in January at the moment; this damn flu bug. But I’ve got a print that might interest you,’ he said. ‘We gave priority to the victim’s suite itself, the rest had to wait. Have you any idea how many staff that place has? They all had to be eliminated. Anyway, this one’s not from in there, it’s from the corridor close by.’

  ‘There must be a lot of prints there. What’s so special about this one?’

  ‘This one’s got form.’

  ‘Who is it, a hotel thief with a propensity for throat-slitting?’

  ‘Not exactly; although you got the throat-slitting bit right. I’ve arranged for the file to be sent straight over to you from Yorkshire Central. Least I could do with the delay we’ve caused.’

  A couple of minutes later Nash explained to the others. ‘I think we’ve got a breakthrough. SOCO found a print in the corridor. It belongs to an Alan Charles Marshall, convicted in 2000 for murder. Victim was his wife, Anna. Her throat was slit. SOCO gave me some details from their records. Anna Marshall had been having an affair with Moran. She worked for him. He was the star prosecution witness. The contention was that Marshall found out about the affair and was known to have a temper. The prosecution said he slit her throat in a fit of jealousy, drove to Scarborough and dumped her body in the sea.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘He got life. Then he appealed successfully; got rele
ased back in 2006.’

  ‘So all we have to do is locate Marshall and we’ll have the case sewn up.’

  Nash smiled at Edwards. ‘Sounds easy, doesn’t it? Have you any idea where to begin looking? It’s a shame we don’t keep tabs on released prisoners.’

  ‘I thought we did?’ Lisa asked as she began nervously chewing on her lip.

  ‘We do when they’ve been convicted. When they’ve had the conviction quashed we’re not allowed to. It’s against their human rights or something,’ Ruth explained.

  Lisa hardly heard what the other two were saying; she could feel the panic rising. She knew he hadn’t gone into the suite that night. But had he returned? Had he tried to convince her of his innocence so he could get away? ‘I know this sounds a bit naïve, but do Marshall’s fingerprints prove he killed Moran. Surely he’d be extra careful given their past history.’

  ‘Not in itself it doesn’t,’ Ruth replied. ‘But it’s as strong a piece of circumstantial evidence as I’ve ever seen. I’m off to Netherdale with this lot.’ She waved the sheaf of timesheets. ‘Ring me if there’s any development.’

  Lisa was torn with doubt. She decided to wait until the file arrived before she told Nash all she knew.

  Binns brought it to the office, where he and Nash stared at the attached photo in dismay. Taken years earlier, it demonstrated how times and fashions had changed. Aged twenty-nine, Marshall’s face glowed with health and a sort of cherubic innocence. Any trace of these would have long vanished. Time and the ageing process would have taken care of much, the spell in prison the rest. As a tool for apprehending Marshall it was tantamount to useless. Nash put it on one side and they began studying the rest of the file’s contents. As they were reading the phone rang. Binns moved across the CID room to answer it. When he’d picked up the receiver Lisa leant forward. ‘Mike, I need a word. It’s important.’

  Nash noticed her troubled expression. ‘Give me a couple of minutes. Let’s see what Jack’s dealing with first.’