Back-Slash

by Bill Kitson

  Binns replaced the handset. ‘That was a chap called Parker, gamekeeper from Layton Estate. He went to see a friend of his yesterday evening; owed him an apology of some sort. There was no sign of the bloke, his dog wasn’t there either. The guy’s name is Myers, lives in a remote cottage. Anyway, the keeper went back this morning. Still no one there, and when he tried the door it was unlocked. He went inside and found a lot of bloodstained sheeting, towels and so forth.’ Binns paused then added, ‘He also found a bloodstained knife on the floor.’

  ‘Will you have a run out there, Jack? Lisa and I’ll concentrate on this. Let me know if there’s any mileage in it, or if this keeper’s panicking over a shaving nick.’

  They watched Binns depart. As soon as the door closed behind him Lisa said, ‘He isn’t.’

  ‘Isn’t what?’

  ‘That keeper. He isn’t panicking over nothing.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The man who’s been living in the cottage, his name isn’t Myers. It’s Marshall. Alan Marshall.’ Lisa began to explain. It took a while and when she finished Nash sat looking at her in silence. ‘I’m sorry, Mike. I was about to tell you everything before that call came in. I suppose I’m going to be suspended or sacked or something,’ she said miserably.

  ‘Not necessarily. You might have been’ – Nash pointed to the file on the desk – ‘if I hadn’t read that first.’

  Lisa looked up in surprise.

  ‘I wouldn’t convict anyone of shoplifting on that evidence,’ Nash told her. ‘I’m not surprised the Court of Appeal tossed it out. I’d have done the same. It’s possible that Marshall got a raw deal. Which begs the question, why were there so many people anxious to have him convicted? OK, he could be a wife murderer, and he might have taken a sadistic revenge on his wife’s lover and the woman he was with; but I find that hard to believe. From what you tell me, Marshall’s been living in that cottage quite peaceably since his release. Now, I’m expected to believe he’s suddenly gone on the rampage. It doesn’t make sense. Of course I could be wrong’ – a grin passed across his face, fleetingly – ‘it has happened before. So what I want to know, Lisa, is what do you think of Marshall? You’ve met him, talked to him, and what’s more you’ve done so in highly stressful circumstances. What’s your assessment of his character?’

  ‘He seems a normal, calm, even-tempered individual,’ Lisa stated. ‘All right, he had a bit of a chip on his shoulder about his conviction, and about Moran, but I’m not sure he really meant to kill him; despite what he said at The Golden Bear.’

  ‘In that case we’d better follow Jack out to this cottage, see what went on there. Don’t mention anything about this to anybody else, right? Before we go, get the details of that car from the computer.

  ‘Harry Jones here, Mr Brown. What’s happening?’

  ‘Everything’s been dealt with, Mr Jones. The item for urgent delivery has been dispatched. I can’t say when you will hear that it’s been delivered as the address is remote. However, it has been done.’

  ‘That’s exceedingly good news. Rather than waste time I think we should move on. I have another order to put your way. The dispatch isn’t as urgent but the sooner the order’s been executed the more content I shall feel. I’m sure I can trust to your expertise. I’ll send you the order form in the next few days.’

  ‘I’ll see to that, no problem. I take it payment for the urgent delivery has been sent?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Then I look forward to receiving your further order.’

  chapter eight

  The officers stood in the lounge of the cottage. ‘We need a SOCO team out here. Organize it will you, Jack? Lisa and I will have a look round the rest of the place, then see if we can find anything outside.’

  They walked into the bedroom. ‘This looks as if someone’s been wounded.’ Nash pointed to the torn, bloodstained sheet and equally soiled towel. ‘Unless they were left over from the chainsaw accident.’

  Lisa shook her head. ‘Marshall told me he’d burnt those; made a joke of it. Said when he put them in the Aga they created so much smoke anyone passing the cottage would think he’d been elected Pope.’

  They were wandering round the back of the cottage when Binns joined them. ‘I can’t get a signal on this side of the woods. Do you want me to drive over to Bishop’s Cross? It’s a lot nearer the mast.’

  ‘You’d better do. Ask them to send a sniffer-dog. That’s if the handlers haven’t got flu or the dogs contracted distemper or rabies. It’ll take us weeks to search all this. A dog will do it in hours.’

  They watched Binns depart and Lisa asked, ‘You don’t think Marshall’s returned here, do you? I got the impression he was leaving the area.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what he wanted you to think. The other thing is, it takes two to have a fight. For all we know, Marshall could have killed someone and hidden the body.’ Nash gestured to the surrounding woodland. ‘We might as well make a start whilst we’re waiting.’

  Binns returned with the news that SOCO and the dog handler wouldn’t be available for another two hours. As he was speaking, Lisa shouted to Nash, ‘Mike, you’d better come and have a look at this.’

  Nash looked down at the plastic bag she had found. Stuffed inside were several items of clothing. They donned latex gloves and carried it into the cottage. In the bag they could see the familiar livery worn by staff at The Golden Bear. Nash slid the trousers out and held them up. ‘Lisa, how tall do you reckon Marshall is?’

  Andrews replied instantly. ‘Just over six feet, at a guess.’

  ‘What about his chest measurement? Approximately, I mean.’

  ‘I’d say he was about your size, a forty-two or a forty-four, why do you…?’ She stared at the blood-splattered jacket Nash had taken out of the carrier. ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘If those bloodstains prove to be from Stuart Moran and Lesley Robertson, Alan Marshall couldn’t have been the killer. Not wearing those clothes anyway.’ Lisa looked at the suit and realized what Nash meant. There was no way Marshall could have squeezed his six feet two inch frame into trousers made for someone six-inches shorter, nor get his forty-four inch chest into a thirty-six inch jacket.

  Nash explained his theory to Binns. ‘There’s something else. Marshall’s been living like a hermit. At a guess, I’d say when he goes shopping, it would only be to Helmsdale or Netherdale, right?’

  Binns nodded. ‘Seems logical.’

  ‘Look at the logo of the supermarket on the carrier. Their nearest branches are York and Harrogate. I can’t see Marshall travelling that far for his cornflakes and sliced loaves, can you?’

  The sergeant grinned. ‘You might make a detective one of these days, Mike. What do we do next?’

  ‘I want you to remain here and liaise with SOCO. Make sure they give the contents of that bag priority. Lisa can come back with me. I’ll sort out a press release, and then I’m going to see if I can get an interview with Marshall’s employer, Sir Maurice Winfield. If anyone round here knows what’s going on, he will.’

  ‘I thought he was retired?’

  Nash gave Binns an old-fashioned look. ‘Don’t believe all the rumours you hear, especially those that might have been started deliberately.’

  As Marshall turned to walk into the railway station he felt totally alone. Quite unlike anything he’d experienced even during his long sojourn in Woodbine Cottage. This was an altogether different emotion compounded by fear. Fear of the ruthless unknown enemy, and the apprehension of an approaching battle, in which Marshall was without ally. He was up against an opponent who appeared to know everything about him, whereas Marshall knew nothing about his enemy. He had only one tiny scrap of information, and even that would be useless without Lisa’s cooperation. She’d agreed to help, but was that merely to rid herself of a man she saw as a dangerous killer? Had she gone straight to the phone, once he’d left her flat? Even now the police could be on the lookout for him. By entering the railway stati
on, was he about to walk into the arresting arms of waiting detectives?

  Marshall glanced back towards the Dickinsons’ Land Rover, an unconscious plea for reassurance. But Barry was manoeuvring into the early morning traffic that was about as close to a rush hour as Netherdale High Street achieved. Marshall walked towards the station’s ticket office, his thoughts as grey and cheerless as the January skies.

  Netherdale railway station had been simplified to the point of stark necessity. It comprised only the waiting room, located in the middle of the single platform that segregated travellers wishing to go north from those heading south. Within it were the ticket office, a set of toilets and a food-and-drinks machine, the only requirements deemed necessary for the few passengers to use Netherdale.

  ‘Single to Leeds,’ he asked the official behind the screen. As the man brought the details up on his computer Marshall glanced apprehensively round the small room. A slightly spotty youth, his eyes narrowed with concentration, was seated in one corner, his fingers moving rapidly over the keys on his mobile phone. Further along an immense woman in her late thirties was attempting to pacify a toddler in a pushchair whilst dealing with the highly vociferous demands and complaints of a couple of older children. At the far end of the bench, as opposite in attitude as in location from the youth, was a middle-aged man who was struggling with the Daily Telegraph crossword. At his feet was a briefcase and alongside him on the bench another case whose dimensions betrayed its contents: a laptop computer. The rest of the waiting-room was empty.

  ‘The 8.55’s your first train, then there’s another at 9.25,’ the railway official told him. ‘You’ll need to change at York.’

  Marshall paid for the ticket and walked out on to the platform. He wandered across to the southbound side and sat on one of the slatted benches. Their uncomfortable design was surely intended to avoid passengers missing their train, for there was no chance of anyone dozing off on those unyielding surfaces.

  The earlier train was crowded, but Marshall wanted to get clear of Netherdale as fast as he could. Losing himself in the mass of humanity in and around Leeds represented his best chance. He was unable to find a seat but after twenty minutes or so the train stopped at Throxendale. A large, noisy family got up to leave the train. Marshall slid into the seat vacated by one of them.

  The first thing he needed was money: cash, to be specific. Paying for goods and services with a credit or debit card was as good a way of advertising his whereabouts to the police as waving and shouting, ‘Yoo-hoo, here I am, come and get me.’ To get cash involved a visit to his building society, where his account had been active since he was at university. There he’d be able to withdraw sufficient for his needs. Cash would be anonymous, untraceable and had several other advantages. Traders liked it, because cash never bounced, and it didn’t cost the trader a commission. If cash brought the trader peace of mind it bought the same for Marshall.

  Leaving the cottage so hastily had been a panic measure. Marshall acknowledged the fact, but he’d no experience of being a fugitive. He’d need to think out every move with greater care from now on. He’d collected his few valuable possessions such as driving licence, bank and building society passbooks and one or two private documents but had completely overlooked the matter of clothing. If his period in hiding was to be lengthy, he’d need not one, but several changes. He’d have to buy these and something to contain them to avoid drawing attention to himself, to appear normal.

  Marshall smiled ruefully. What was normal about his life? Was it normal to be on the run? Was it normal to be on the run from both the police and a ruthless killer who’d slit your throat as soon as look at you? Was it normal to have spent so long hiding from your past, from the consequences of a crime you hadn’t even committed? No, whatever else could be said about his life it certainly wasn’t ‘normal’.

  Marshall remembered everything about his arrest with hideous clarity. The journey from Leeds to Scarborough in the back of the police car, sandwiched between the two officers leading the enquiry. The mortuary: its chill, damp air, musty with the smell of death and formaldehyde. The drab green paint on the doors, the faded magnolia emulsion on the walls. Then the examination room, the cold clinical look of stainless steel everywhere. Everywhere, except in the middle of the room where a central spindle supported the table, ominously covered with a heavy green sheet. He knew what lay beneath that sheet. He knew he’d been brought there only in part to identify the body: an impossible task. The real reason was to allow the detectives to pressure him into confessing to Anna’s murder.

  Marshall felt the tears pricking at the corner of his eyes as he remembered the obscenity that was revealed when the sheet was pulled back. The ocean and its creatures had ravaged her beyond all recognition, ripping to shreds his memory of the beautiful girl he’d courted and married.

  At his trial he had been made to listen whilst the prosecution seeking his conviction exposed Anna’s infidelity in lurid, lascivious detail for the world to see and hear, and drool over. No matter that every word was a fresh torment to him. No matter what his feelings were. He was only the defendant. His feelings didn’t count. He might have protested but knew his protests would carry as little weight as his plea of not guilty.

  His conviction had been inevitable. He’d seen it coming from early on. As shock followed shock, lie followed lie, he began watching events unfold with a detached, almost neutral viewpoint. As if the events in court were happening to someone else.

  He didn’t dwell on his years in Durham. There were some things that should remain buried. It was a life sentence he’d been given. It had seemed like several lifetimes before the successful appeal. Outside the court following his release, Marshall remembered the senior detective telling him, ‘Don’t think of coming near Leeds, Marshall. One way or another I’ll have you. I’ll find some way of putting you back where you belong.’ Marshall had glanced to the right and left. The corridor was deserted. He’d learned a few tricks during the past few years. He was fit. As lean and tough as a spartan regime and less than appetising diet could make a man. The detective was overweight, had spent too long in too many bars, drinking too many pints and smoking too many cigarettes; a coronary waiting to happen.

  Marshall had brought up his knee sharply and seen the detective’s face whiten with pain. He’d held him upright against the wall, stuffed his tie into his mouth and grabbed his bruised testicles. ‘Keep out of my way or I’ll present these to you as a souvenir,’ he told the man. He’d squeezed and heard the man gagging against the silk fabric, saw his eyes bulging with pain. ‘I’d stay out of dark alleys too,’ he advised the detective, before moving away to face the press.

  Despite the success of the appeal Marshall felt cheated and betrayed. That was why he’d retreated from the world. Not from guilt or shame but to stay clear of the risk of being hurt again.

  Roundhay Park was deserted. Not surprising at that time of year. Apart from an occasional dog walker there were few pedestrians braving the cold, windswept expanses of that area of the park known as Soldiers’ Fields. The two men who approached one another were muffled up against the weather. They met and began to walk alongside one another.

  ‘What’s the latest? I need to know what’s going on.’

  ‘I’ve had to get Brown to do an urgent job for us. I’m pleased to say he did it quickly and efficiently, and in difficult circumstances too.’

  ‘What was it about this time?’

  ‘A potential problem came up.’

  ‘I’ve heard nothing, so why all the panic?’

  ‘It hasn’t come to light yet. It wasn’t so much a panic, more of a precaution. I wasn’t sure if our legal friend had renewed an old acquaintance or not. Something we didn’t want to happen. I thought it wise to ensure nothing came of such a meeting, even if it did take place.’

  ‘You’re certain it was necessary?’

  ‘I’d say vital. If that meeting had taken place it would have had disastrous consequences f
or us. Having the chance to sever the last link with the past was too good an opportunity to miss.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘Put it this way. Who were the last two people we’d want to meet up and reminisce about old times? I’m not sure it happened, but I wasn’t prepared to take the chance. Even if it did, there’s now no reason to believe the result of their conversation will become known.’

  ‘I take it you must be referring to Moran on the one hand. Who might the other party to the conversation have been?’

  ‘Ah, now that’s where it gets very interesting. You remember I said I was having grave doubts about Moran’s frame of mind and where that might lead him? I was right in one sense, wrong in another. He did seem to have been afflicted with a sudden attack of guilty conscience, but instead of rushing to tell all to the officers of the law he headed quite the other way. To talk to the husband of the dear departed.’

  ‘How did you find out about it?’

  ‘Brown found Marshall’s address amongst Moran’s possessions. The location was so close to where he was staying I can’t believe it was a coincidence.’

  ‘You’re sure nothing remains to link us to these events?’

  ‘I think it highly unlikely. I pressed Brown into urgent action. He examined the scene and found no incriminating evidence. I’m sure we acted fast enough to avoid repercussions. If that’s the case Brown’s erased the last link with what happened nearly ten years ago. There’s no one left to tie us in to those events. Marshall would have been a great threat. You didn’t know him. He was highly intelligent and very determined. I believe he was capable of discovering us and ruining us.’

  ‘You always feared him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Feared and respected him. It was fear of him that made all this necessary. So, yes, I’m glad he’s no longer in a position to threaten us. From what Brown told me, it appears things have been left so that Marshall will be the prime suspect for everything that’s happened. The police will think he’s taken his revenge, then done away with himself. All very neat and tidy. Everything carefully packaged for the police to wrap up with the minimum of effort. It even keeps the crime statistics looking right. They have the dead man, they have the motive. Once they find out who he is they’ll know why he wanted Moran dead. Why should they bother looking elsewhere?’