Blood Axe

by Leigh Russell

  ‘Oh my God,’ the girl kept repeating, over and over, ‘oh my God.’

  Having established that they could tell him nothing that might help move the investigation forward, Ian left. He gave them each a card and asked them to contact him if they thought of anything that might help discover the identity of the killer. The neighbours on both sides of the property were similarly shocked, but unable to offer any useful information. Ian returned to the tent, deep in thought. If none of the neighbours had interrupted the killer, someone else must have gone past to disturb him at his grisly work. The police would have to put out an appeal for witnesses. That could be a longwinded task, inviting all sorts of cranks to come forward with false information. It was a pity none of the immediate neighbours had noticed anything. He tried the properties over the road, but no one had seen anyone go past. As before, the killer had disappeared without a trace – except that this time he had left his axe behind.

  That was enough.

  A doctor arrived and gave the body a quick examination. Thin and fair-haired, she scowled up at Ian as though he was to blame for dragging her out to look at a corpse. With a grunt she rose to her feet and dusted her knees with the back of a gloved hand.

  ‘Well, she’s dead,’ she announced.

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘It’s difficult to be precise, with the body being outside, but I’d say about two hours ago, between eight thirty and nine thirty.’

  She looked surprised when Ian asked if she could tell him anything about what had happened.

  ‘I would have thought that was pretty obvious. Now I really need to get going.’

  Without another word she spun on her heel and walked away.

  Before the axe was removed for close forensic examination in the lab, a police handler arrived with a tracker dog. With luck, it would lead them straight to the owner of the weapon. The handler was concerned that the blood on the axe might put the dog off the scent they wanted it to follow, but he was ready to give it a try. There was a chance it could work. Ian watched the animal sniffing at the axe. It was a surreal scenario that seemed to take ages. At last the handler seemed satisfied the dog had picked up the scent.

  ‘Let’s hope it’s the right one,’ Ian muttered as he followed the handler down the path beside the house, back to the street.

  After sniffing around on the pavement for a few minutes, the dog set off up the road. The handler hurried after it with Ian following. As they reached the end of the road there was a clap of thunder. The dog didn’t even pause in his stride as it began to pour with rain. The handler had come prepared in a waterproof jacket. Ian swore. He wasn’t wearing a coat.

  ‘It’s taking us back to the river!’ the handler called over his shoulder.

  The dog began to trot faster as they approached the river path. They were returning to the location the dog had led them to once before. Ian was convinced they were on the right track, even though it would probably only take them to the water’s edge again.

  58

  The dog stopped abruptly, then ran round in circles sniffing the ground. Once or twice it looked up at the handler. The two men waited. The dog went over to the wall that ran alongside the path and stood beside it for a moment. Then it put its head back and howled softly.

  Ian turned to look at the handler. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something happened here.’

  Ian nodded at a constable who was accompanying them. ‘We need to search this area. Maybe he stopped and threw something over the wall here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yes. Something happened here. You can trust him. Come on, boy.’

  Understanding the signal, the dog moved away from the wall and took a sharp turn down the narrow steps to the river. It stood on the bank, snuffling at the water. It was the same spot where it had brought them before. Ian swore. All the tracks led to the river. The dog had been casting around. It pulled his handler up the steps again and loped along the path towards the town. The two men hurried to keep up. Reaching the railway bridge the dog stopped and began its routine of sniffing again.

  ‘He stopped here,’ the handler said.

  Ian nodded. That made sense. The killer was running away. Under the bridge he would be out of sight, concealed from every direction. He might have paused to gather his breath. Maybe he had a stitch. Or he might have stopped to remove a disguise, his cloak perhaps.

  ‘How long did he stop for?’

  The handler shook his head. ‘I don’t know. He could tell us everything, if he could talk.’ He stooped to pat the dog’s head.

  At a signal from the handler, the dog set off again, back towards the steps where he had lost the scent before. All tracks led to the river where the dog couldn’t follow him. Nor could the police. Yet again the killer had vanished into the night. It wouldn’t be easy to conduct a search of the area in the dark, but Ian couldn’t afford to wait until morning. With every passing hour the killer might be moving further away. He would have realised that he was no longer safe in York and must be planning to slip away from the city as soon as he could. He might already have gone. In six months, or a year, they might read about a psychopath hacking people to death with another axe in another county. Another police team would set to work, looking for the axe killer from York, while more people were murdered.

  There was nothing more for the tracker dog to do. With a nod at the handler as he left, Ian was on the phone organising a search team to check the river path, inch by inch. In the darkness they had to find something that would reveal the identity of the mysterious killer who had slipped away from them yet again. It didn’t help that the ground was wet. The rain had stopped, but the earth was sodden. Despite the darkness and the wet, they had to press on. This time they would leave no loopholes. Not only the path, but the river itself would be closed. The killer would not escape that way again. Everyone who lived along the river would be questioned first thing in the morning, before people left for work, in case anyone had noticed a figure, or a boat, in the night. Beside the path a whitewashed wall fenced off a ditch, beyond which a steep grassy incline led up to the railway line. The wall would be taken down, panel by panel, starting opposite the steps leading down to the river. If the killer had left even one hair there, Ian wanted it found. With four murders committed, he could call on almost unlimited resources to aid him in the search. Every available officer had been drafted in to assist the investigation, and now they knew where to focus their efforts. Sooner or later they would find what they were looking for. They could only hope they would discover the killer’s identity in time to prevent anther death.

  ‘This time he won’t get away,’ Ian muttered down the phone.

  He wasn’t sure if anyone heard him. It didn’t matter. He was talking to himself.

  With impressive speed the path by the river was illuminated beside the narrow stairs leading down to the water, where the killer had twice evaded capture. Beyond the circle of brilliant light, uniformed officers were scouring the path and the bank below with hand-held torches. There was an atmosphere of quiet industry on the ground. Overhead the fluctuating roar of a circling helicopter rose and faded as its powerful beam of light swept across the area. Ian was standing beneath a tree on the slope near the steps, water dripping gently from the branches above his head. He considered going to wait under the nearby railway bridge but stayed where he was. His hair was already wet. It was hard to keep still, but there was nothing he could do. In the light of his torch he studied the bark of the tree, gnarled and rough. Light from the helicopter shone intermittently through a mist that hung eerily over the water, spreading in pockets across the surrounding land.

  Even in March the night air held a hint of winter. Ian wasn’t dressed for a chilly night vigil. Preoccupied with Bev’s complaints, he had left the house in a rush without stopping to grab a coat. It hadn’t been raining then. Wo
rse than his damp clothes, his shoes weren’t waterproof. Damp had seeped through the seams before he reached the river path and pulled on shoe covers. His hair was wet. His socks were wet. His feet felt like blocks of ice. He stamped on the ground, and wrapped his arms round his chest, pressing his hands against his sides with his upper arms. It was hard to remain optimistic when he was so cold.

  On the path in front of him a couple of young officers paused in their search. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but one of them must have cracked a joke because they both laughed before turning back to their work. Isolated, Ian waited in the darkness. He seemed to be standing there for hours before a voice rang out, disturbing the muffled sounds of the night search.

  ‘Over here!’

  His cold feet forgotten he dashed across the path, splashing through a puddle as he hurried towards an officer waving at him in the light of a torch. Several panels of the wall had been taken down. The dazzling beam of light illuminated a gap in the wall just opposite the steps where dogs had twice lost the killer’s scent. Red-faced from his exertions, an excited officer accosted him as he reached the space in the wall.

  ‘The panel was broken here, sir. There was a gap. When we pulled the panel, there was enough room to get through. So we got the lads to take it down completely. SOCOs are examining the bit of wall they took down. And bloody hell, sir. Just look at what we found on the other side!’

  In the glare of the lights, Ian gazed towards the muddy ditch on the far side of the wall.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he echoed the officer’s words.

  59

  The first rays of the sun were beginning to appear, burning off the night mist. With the daylight, the air instantly seemed warmer. Ian felt his temporary depression vanish with the mist. It was hard to believe the sudden change in the atmosphere along the river bank. The search continued, with officers inching their way along the path, scrutinising the ground. Ostensibly nothing had changed. But the muted voices sounded livelier. Word might have spread about the killer’s lair in the ditch, or it could have simply been in response to the dawn, the end of a long, cold night. Either way, the mood among the searchers was almost cheerful.

  Pulling on fresh shoe covers, Ian approached and stared down into the ditch. Beside a large blue plastic bucket half a dozen tins stood in the muddy water.

  ‘Metal polish, machine oil, linseed oil,’ the officer told him, following the direction of Ian’s gaze.

  Ian nodded. Several filthy rags lay spread out on the earth, above the level of the water, together with a large, clear plastic bag containing packs of sandpaper. Stepping closer, he saw a few leather gloves inside the bucket, together with what looked like a carbon steel brush. There was an orange plastic bag beside the bucket.

  ‘What’s in the carrier bag?’

  A scene of crime officer replied. ‘A file. Looks like it was used on metal. We’ll bag it up and send it off to the lab as soon as we’ve finished with the photos.’

  ‘Looks like he brought a vice with him and clamped the weapon to a tree root. Here.’

  He pointed to a large root protruding from the earth scored with deep incisions. Some instrument with straight sides had cut into it several times. Ian nodded.

  ‘And here again.’ The officer indicated further markings on a fence post.

  The whole set-up would have looked bizarre had they not known what had taken place there. As it was, the scene made perfect sense. The killer had brought his axe there to sharpen it. Perhaps he had kept it stored there when he wasn’t using it. The makeshift outdoor workshop raised some telling questions. Clamping his axe head to a tree root was hardly ideal. They were so close to the end, but the investigation wasn’t over. They couldn’t afford to become complacent. The DNA that must be plastered all over the area might not yield a match. Carefully stepping away from the makeshift outdoor workshop, Ian took out his phone.

  Back at the station, Ian discussed the night’s findings with Eileen and Ted. Before Andrea’s body had even been examined, they had a lot of new information to weigh up and disseminate.

  ‘There must be a reason why he felt unable to sharpen his axe indoors,’ Ian said.

  ‘That’s what I was thinking,’ Eileen agreed. ‘It suggests he doesn’t live alone.’

  There might be a flatmate who noticed he had been away from home whenever a murder had been committed. A blacksmith had confirmed the opinion of the scene of crime officers, that the axe had only been sharpened behind the wall once. Before that it must have been done elsewhere.

  ‘Maybe he started doing it at home but then something got the wind up him and he decided that was too risky.’

  ‘Perhaps he just didn’t want to take it home any more,’ Ian said. ‘Once the papers reported the murder weapon was an axe, it would have been risky for him to walk around carrying it. That could be why last night’s attack was carried out close to the river, away from the centre of the town. He had been keeping the axe at home – wherever that is – but it became too dangerous, so he moved it, along with all the gear he used to sharpen it. And he turned away from the town for his next attack.’

  Eileen and Ted nodded. What Ian was saying made sense.

  ‘That stacks up in theory,’ Eileen agreed.

  Ian sighed. He understood what she meant. They needed something more concrete than a theory. While Eileen brought the rest of the team up to speed, the forensic lab worked on the axe found at the crime scene and the equipment that had been discovered in the ditch. Ian returned to Andrea’s street. The mortuary van was just leaving, taking the body with it for a post mortem. Ian hoped it would be done that day. If not, it might have to wait until after the weekend. Meanwhile, Ian had set up a team to question people living in sight of the river. It was possible someone had glanced out of their window and seen a figure running along the path or dragging a boat into the water the previous evening. The Royal Mail had a depot along the river. An officer was sent there to ask if anyone had been working after nine o’clock who might have seen someone out on the river path, or in a boat. As well as questioning local residents, notices were posted along the river path, beyond the cordoned-off area. Drivers of trains that had passed over the railway bridge after half past eight were tracked down and questioned, in case they had seen anyone walking on the river path below the bridge the previous evening. While this massive information gathering exercise was taking shape, blood tests and DNA samples were being processed from the crime scene and ditch by the river.

  Ian set off with renewed enthusiasm. Something had to result from all this activity. He was kept updated by phone. The wall panel had yielded a lot of useful information. Tiny threads of black fabric had been caught on the rough edge of the wall panel where the killer had forced his way through. There was fleeting excitement when traces of blood were discovered on the wall, until it was found to match Andrea’s. Identifying her blood confirmed that the killer had been there, but they already knew that, really. Still by the river, numerous splinters of wood had been picked out of the water in the ditch. Analysis suggested they came from a boat as water from the river as well as rain water had been detected in their chemical content. But there was still nothing to indicate the identity of the killer.

  60

  Ian had spent the afternoon talking to people who lived in Andrea’s street, without learning anything new. No one had noticed a stranger in the area, or heard anything unusual. Andrea’s flatmate, Julie, had spent the evening in the nearby pub knowing nothing about Andrea’s fate until she had arrived home shortly before eleven. Finding her flatmate dead on the doorstep, Julie had called the police. Ian had spoken to her himself and was convinced she had seen no one on her route home. In any case, the killer must have disappeared a couple of hours before she had left the pub.

  By seven o’clock, Ian was worn out. After the excitement of discovering the killer’s hiding place that morning, they were still
waiting to find out anything definite. All the neighbours and residents of the riverside properties had been approached. It had been a door-to-door enquiry on a massive scale which had produced no results at all. There was nothing more to do but wait for the results of the forensic tests. Ian drove back to the police station with Ted, intending to pick up his own car and go home to Bev. There were any number of statements to scan through, but they could wait until the morning. All he wanted to do was write up his own notes and get some sleep. Sitting at the desk in his little office, he called his wife.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Yes, I’m OK. Did you come home last night?’

  ‘No. I’ll explain when I see you. It’s been a rough night, but it was worth it. We’ve had a huge break through.’

  ‘Does that mean the case will soon be over and done with?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘So when are you coming home? I mean, am I going to see you later?’

  ‘Yes, that’s why I’m calling. I’ve got about half an hour to do here, and then I’m coming home.’

  ‘Great. I’ll put some dinner on. What would you like?’

  All he wanted to do was go home and fall into bed, but he didn’t say so.

  ‘Whatever you do will be great. Don’t go to any trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble…’

  ‘I mean, I’m tired. I really need an early night.’

  ‘I’m not surprised if you’ve been up all night,’ she retorted, but she sounded cheerful.

  He settled down to complete his log. Before he had finished, his phone rang. It was Avril, calling from the mortuary to tell him Jonah had finished carrying out a post mortem on Andrea.

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Well, we had an idea it might be kind of urgent.’

  ‘That’s great. Is he still there?’