Blood Axe

by Leigh Russell

  Bev seemed to be taking a long time to pack. He flicked through the channels on the television. There was nothing he wanted to watch. He went upstairs and found his wife picking her way through a heap of clothes lying on the bed.

  ‘Jesus, Bev, you’re only going to see your parents for the weekend. You look like you’re packing for a month’s cruise.’

  She looked up with a guilty laugh. ‘You know they always like to take me out.’

  ‘OK, whatever, I’m only saying.’

  ‘You go on down and put something on the television. I’ll be down soon.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Go on.’

  With a shrug, he turned and went back downstairs. He would never understand women. Bev looked so excited about going back to Kent. He wondered if he had been unreasonably selfish in dragging her away from her home and her family. His relations with his own family were civil, but distant. Things might have been different if his mother were still around. As a teenager, Ian and his brother had gone to live with their birth father in Kent. His brother had clashed with their father and had joined their stepfather in America as soon as he could. Ian had stayed in England because by then he had met Bev. She was always a magnet for men, but there had never been any other girl as far as he was concerned.

  With a sigh, he resumed flicking through the television channels, waiting for the takeaway to arrive. It was little comfort to know there were many more patrol cars than usual on the streets. While he sat at home waiting for his dinner, and police cars were cruising the streets, the Viking axe man could be at his grisly business. Making a mockery of the police patrol cars, he could slip unseen along the dark alleys and Snickelways of York, hunting for his next victim.

  42

  As he walked along St Maurice’s Road, skirting the city wall, a car pulled into the kerb beside him. When the driver called out, he was so startled he almost dropped his bag. The strap slipped down over his shoulder, dragging his hood back off his face. Quickly he pulled the strap over his shoulder again. Tensed to run, he registered what the driver was saying. As he dithered, she repeated her question. He turned to look at her. She must have been getting on for sixty. Greying hair was pulled back off her face with a plastic hairband, and she wore red lipstick. Looking down at her tentative smile, his fear faded. At the same time he noticed several sparkling rings on her fingers, and a gold chain around her neck.

  He shuffled a little closer. ‘Did you say Leeds?’

  ‘Yes, I’m on my way there, only I’m afraid I’ve got myself hopelessly lost. It’s this wretched one way system. I’ve been round it three times. If you could just point me in the right direction?’

  He made his mind up. He had come out looking for plunder, and here was a rich woman displaying her treasure to him as she asked for his help. Cunning as well as valiant, he did not walk away from her. The gods might not send him a second opportunity that night.

  ‘Actually, I’m going to Leeds myself. I’m just on my way to the station. I don’t suppose – that is, if I come along I could give you directions…’

  She understood his question and her smile broadened. ‘This is a lucky coincidence! Hop in. I’ve been on the road for two hours. It’ll be nice to have some company.’

  It wasn’t lucky for her. If he had been honest, he would have admitted that he wasn’t quite sure of the way, but it didn’t matter. The moment he climbed into the car, her fate was decided. She was never going to reach Leeds. The gods had sent her to him. He would not fail. The car bowled along and the driver chattered on, telling him she was visiting her son and daughter-in-law in Leeds.

  ‘I’m not from round here,’ she explained. ‘My son just moved up here last month, with his job, and this is the first time I’ve been able to make it to see the new house. I had no idea it would be so difficult to find. The sat nav’s been playing up, you see. I think it’s out of date. And then there are all these road works and diversions. I might just take the train next time.’

  There wouldn’t be a next time.

  ‘I was doing so well, and then I took a wrong turning and ended up in York!’ she added with a laugh.

  At her side the warrior sat still and silent, watching and waiting for his chance. It would be best to carry out his task after they left the busy roads of the city, but he didn’t want to travel too far. He would have to make his own way home when it was over. The wolf could run for many miles, but his bag was heavy. All being well, it would weigh a little more soon, with the addition of her gold rings and chains and coins. He was hoping for rich pickings. He couldn’t help feeling a tremor of guilt because the woman trusted him, but he had no choice. She had seen his face. The gods had offered him a chance to prove himself. With their help he would return home safely.

  It wasn’t actually very difficult to find the road to Leeds. As the sky darkened with the setting sun they left the streets of York behind them. Crossing the River Ouse, they drove past a golf club, and Askham Bar Park and Ride, and on towards Tadcaster. Streets of houses gave way to flat farmland. It was almost dark outside. When she turned on her headlights, it was time.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the woman asked, seeming to notice his silence for the first time.

  ‘To be honest, I feel a bit sick,’ he replied, seizing the moment. ‘Do you think we could stop for a bit? I just need some fresh air.’

  ‘Really?’ She sounded surprised. They hadn’t gone far. All the same she pulled over. ‘We can’t have you feeling ill, not after you’ve been so kind, helping me on my way.’

  He didn’t answer. His next challenge was to get her out into the fields. It would be easier there, with space to swing his axe.

  ‘Do you want to come with me?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘No, I’ll stay here.’

  He hesitated, trying to think how he could persuade her to get out of the vehicle, but it didn’t really matter. He clambered out by himself.

  ‘You can leave your bag here,’ she called out.

  Ignoring her suggestion, he ran away from the car and into the fields. Passing through a gap in a hedge he crouched down for a few seconds, out of sight, hoping she wouldn’t change her mind and drive off. He didn’t want to leave her for long, but if he went back too quickly she might become suspicious. He counted to a hundred before hurrying back. She was still there, waiting. He opened the door and reached across. Before she realised what was happening, he grabbed her by both arms and pulled her towards him.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Within seconds she was lying sideways across the passenger seat, her head almost out of the door. Too late she began to struggle as he flung the weight of his body on top of her to stop her returning to her seat and driving away.

  ‘Get off me!’

  Frantically she scrabbled at his cloak, trying to push him off her. There was no time to lose. No time to think. He had to silence her. One of her hands found the steering wheel and clung to it as he seized her by the hair and yanked her towards the passenger door by her head. Losing her grip on the wheel, her arms flailed wildly. There was very little room to manoeuvre. Holding on to her hair with one hand, he raised his axe. Her eyes widened with terror. Before she could open her mouth, Biter swooped, slicing through flesh and soft tissue, carving a passage through the centre of her chest. She writhed helplessly, blood frothing at her lips as her eyes glazed over.

  Swiftly disentangling his fingers from her hair, he wrenched the chain from her bloody neck. Seizing her bag, he ripped her purse open and shook its contents out on the tarmac. Gathering up silver and copper coins, he dropped them into his rucksack along with her gold chain. His breath was coming in gasps. Every time a car zoomed by he thought his heart would burst, it was pounding so fast. The woman had stopped moving. Her eyes were fixed in a terrible glare. Satisfied that she was dead, he pulled at the rings on her fingers. Two came off easily. The third refu
sed to shift. Cursing, he thrust the two he had in his bag and turned away. It wasn’t much of a haul after all his effort. Next time he would do better. His clothes were relatively unstained, protected from her spraying blood by the car. He wiped Biter’s blade quickly on the grass, then turned and fled. He needed to put as much distance as he could between himself and the dead woman. The body would probably not be found before daylight, but there was always the risk that a police car might drive past and stop to investigate a car parked on the verge of a main road out of town. If that happened, he had to be as far away as possible.

  The wolf ran swiftly across the fields, towards York.

  43

  On Friday morning, Ian dropped Bev at the station. She refused his offer to carry her luggage to the platform and he dropped her off across the road from the station. Her case was on wheels and she was only going away for the weekend, although, from the size of the case she was taking, she could have been going away for two weeks. They kissed goodbye in the car, a quick peck on the lips, before she jumped out. He watched her crossing the road, her spiky blonde head bobbing along jauntily above a bright red coat, her case bumping up the kerb behind her. He waited, but she didn’t turn to wave. With an empty feeling, he drove along Queen Street and left on to Skeldergate Bridge. Fishergate led him to the Fulford Road and the police station. His day was about to begin.

  He had barely sat down at his desk when the duty sergeant ran in.

  ‘There’s been another one!’ he snapped.

  Ian didn’t pause to ask him what he meant. His colleague’s shocked expression told him enough. He hurried to the incident room where Eileen was standing, pale-faced and stern. Ted ran in behind Ian, followed in turn by Naomi who was scowling as though she had been interrupted in the middle of something important.

  ‘As you’re probably all aware by now,’ Eileen began, ‘there’s been another attack.’

  She flashed up a picture of a middle-aged woman, her face relatively unlined, her hair streaked with grey. A muted gasp went round the room. Ian stared in horror. Naomi’s eyebrows shot up, her irritation changed to shock. The woman was lying, face up, across the two front seats of a car. Her face was splattered with blood, her torso drenched in it.

  ‘She was found lying in her car along the Tadcaster Road,’ Eileen said quietly. ‘She’d been pulled half out of her seat by her attacker, who slashed her chest as you can see.’

  ‘With an axe?’ someone asked.

  Eileen inclined her head. ‘That’s what it looks like.’

  ‘What the hell happened to her face?’ someone else asked.

  ‘Out in the fields, it was probably crows,’ Ted said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m talking about her eyes,’ the sergeant explained. ‘Birds always go for the eyes first. Scavengers find a target pretty quickly if it’s not moving. That’s how they survive. And a body along the edge of a fast road isn’t likely to go unnoticed from the air for long. Raptors are always on the lookout for small dead animals that’ve been run over and killed. The eyes are the first to go because they’re easy to get at. The hide of some animals is difficult to get through. But not hers,’ he added sombrely.

  The statement met with silence as the assembled officers digested this information.

  ‘Yes,’ Eileen said at last, ‘she was lying there overnight, exposed, and part of the morning too. Her chest is slashed open, and, as you can see, her eyes have gone. A patrol car noticed the car first, about half an hour ago. She was in a BMW, too smart to be an abandoned vehicle. They thought joyriders had left it there. Then they noticed the birds, as you said, and they stopped to investigate. This is what they found.’

  Ian stared at the pale blood-streaked face on the screen, trying to avoid looking directly at the eye sockets. Somehow they drew his attention, like gaping dark magnets. He had to look. Around the edges of the sockets he could see bone showing through, picked clean of flesh and tissue. Behind him there was a disturbance as someone ran from the room. Ian felt a tremor of pride that he hadn’t been sick. He wasn’t sure it was a good thing, but he was growing accustomed to viewing damaged corpses. It certainly helped him professionally. When he had started working in murder investigations, his squeamishness around dead bodies had been difficult to conceal. He wondered how many of his fellow officers had experienced similar problems. At least one member of his current team had not yet learned to control his reaction when faced with a mutilated human cadaver.

  ‘Her name is Beryl Morrison, aged sixty-three, living in North London. The car is registered in her name. What was she doing on the road between York and Leeds last night, and how did she encounter the killer? This attack raises a lot of questions and we need answers fast. SOCOs are scouring the site, but what I want to know is, what was our axe man doing halfway to Tadcaster? How did he get there? And why was he able to pull his victim from her car? He must have flagged her down somehow. Was he driving in front of her? Did anyone else see him? Can anyone describe his vehicle?’

  She didn’t add that someone might have noted down his registration number. That was too unlikely a stroke of luck to dare hope for.

  ‘He might have made out his car had broken down,’ someone suggested.

  ‘But why would she stop? She could have phoned for help, or he could have. What made her stop and open her door for him?’

  The discussion was inconclusive. This latest murder was puzzling, in many ways. The atmosphere changed rapidly from shocked inactivity to purposeful bustle as they split up to seek out more information. Ian felt ambivalent about his first task as he set off for London, to speak to the victim’s husband. It was a depressing task, telling family about the death of a loved one. In some ways it was the worst part of his job. The dead were gone and beyond pain. The living would suffer for the rest of their lives. A Metropolitan police officer could be sent to Mr Morrison’s house to give him the terrible news, but it was possible the dead woman’s husband might be privy to information that would aid the investigation. Ian wanted to be there in person, to make sure the bereaved family were asked the right questions.

  He was already on the train to London when he realised that he had forgotten to phone Bev to check she had arrived in Kent. He called her, but she didn’t answer. On the point of calling her parents, he hesitated. He didn’t really want to talk to his mother-in-law just then. It was more important to work on what he needed to find out from the dead woman’s husband. Speaking to Bev would have to wait until later. An added incentive for travelling to London was that he could take the opportunity to look up his former colleague and fellow inspector, Geraldine Steel. She worked in North London. When he called her on the off chance, she answered straight away.

  ‘How about lunch?’ he asked when he had explained he was on a train to London. ‘I know it’s short notice, but I’m on my way to North London. It’s all very last minute. I’ll explain when I see you.’ He realised he had made it sound as though he was expecting her to drop whatever she was doing to come and meet him. ‘If you can spare the time, that is.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re going to be in North London and you think I might not make time to see you?’

  He smiled. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you.’

  ‘Me too. It’s been a while.’

  44

  It was barely midday when Ian rang the bell at the Morrison’s house. The victim had lived with her seventy-five-year-old husband in an expensive area just off Totteridge Lane in North London. The door was opened by a white-haired man. He peered short-sightedly at Ian with a slightly puzzled expression. He would have been as tall as Ian if he hadn’t been standing with shoulders hunched, his back bowed. His voice was hoarse and he had a peevish expression on his craggy face.

  ‘Whatever it is you want, I’m not interested.’

  Ian introduced himself and the old man took a step back, frowning.

  ‘A p
olice officer? Oh dear. Has something happened?’

  Ian suggested they go inside. This was not a message to be delivered standing on a doorstep. The old man fussed for a while. After scrutinising Ian’s identity card he went inside to call the local police station and check his visitor’s credentials. Ian waited patiently outside the closed door. He had travelled a long way to speak to the widower, but he couldn’t fault him for being careful. When the front door reopened, Mr Morrison looked worried.

  ‘They told me you’ve come all the way from York.’

  ‘That’s right. Can we go inside? You might want to sit down.’

  ‘It’s Beryl, isn’t it? Has she had an accident? I don’t understand why you’ve come here from York.’

  He was babbling nervously, preventing Ian from answering his questions.

  Gently, Ian guided him inside and into the living room where he virtually pushed the old man down on a leather armchair.

  ‘Mr Morrison, I’m afraid your wife…’

  ‘I knew it! I knew something like this would happen.’

  ‘Mr Morrison, I don’t think…’

  ‘Driving all that way, by herself, I knew there’d be an accident. I told her!’ He looked angry, but Ian understood he was scared. ‘She will be all right, won’t she? Where is she? I need to get to York, don’t I? Is that what you’ve come here to tell me? Can you take me to her? I’ll get my coat.’

  He half stood up. Ian asked him to remain seated and he sank back into his chair again, his expression openly frightened now. Hating himself for falling back on the cliché, Ian began by saying there was no easy way to pass on the news.