Innocent Blood

by David Stuart Davies

  The first thing he had to do was cut all ties with his past. That was easily done. He thought with an ironic grin that in many ways his past had cut its ties with him. There was only his job that kept him in the real world. He had no family and no strong friendships. He was on leave at present due to his bereavement – his double bereavement – and so it would be an easy task to hand in his resignation. He would tell them he intended to move away, to start afresh where the memories wouldn’t haunt him. Then he would disappear.

  Once that had been achieved, he could start. He ran the film again in his mind and once again even greater clarity and sharper details were observed. A tight grin settled on his features. It was going to work.

  The woodland was still. There was no birdsong and not a leaf, not a blade of grass moved in the late afternoon heat.

  ‘This way,’ said Martin, almost dragging Brenda over the crumbling wall that ran around the perimeter of the wood. He was eager and excited and so was she, but there was apprehension and a certain amount of guilt mixed up with her enthusiasm. She was all in favour of the venture but she had never done anything like this before. What was exciting was also rather frightening. Committing adultery was one thing, but having sex outside, in the open air, in a place where anyone could come upon you … well, it might be daring and erotic but it was both dangerous and a bit sordid, too. It had appealed to her when they had discussed it in the pub but now that it was about to happen she was beginning to have second thoughts.

  She just wished that Martin had booked them into a hotel somewhere. Clean sheets, a soft bed and, above all, privacy. However, she knew this was impractical. They couldn’t go to a place in Huddersfield – that was too dicey – and to travel further afield and pay for a room would take time and cost money. Money that she didn’t have and neither did her out-of-work paramour.

  ‘Down here, love. Mind how you go,’ Martin beamed, his eyes wide with excitement as he led her down a rough path into a denser part of the wood. It began to grow dark as the foliage thickened above them, creating a gloomy umbrella canopy pierced only occasionally by thin shafts of sunlight. It struck Brenda that he seemed to know the route particularly well. Maybe she wasn’t the first girl he’d taken down here. First girl? She almost laughed out loud at that description of herself. Girl? She was pushing forty, had a paunch like a Sumo wrestler and an ungainly lug of a teenage son at home – as well as that other ungainly lug, her bloody husband. No doubt at this very moment he’d be slumped in front of the telly with a few cans of lager on the floor by his chair.

  ‘Not far now,’ Martin was saying, virtually pulling her along behind him.

  The image of Barry, her lazy slob of a husband, which had flashed into her mind suddenly made everything seem all right. She smiled. ‘Good, lover boy,’ she said cheerfully. What the hell, she thought, all cares suddenly evaporating, she was damn well going to enjoy herself. When was the last time a man had paid any attention to her, the last time that she’d had sex when the heaving blob on top of her was sober and loving? Time was running out on her life and she was determined to grab what pleasure she could, however furtive, however sordid; however dangerous. Martin was hardly love’s young dream with his short, stocky build and boxer’s face but there was something about him that she found attractive and somehow endearing. His simplicity and honesty were rare commodities and he was kind to her. That counted for a lot.

  At length they emerged into a clearing where thin strands of sunlight dappled the ground. Gazing up, she caught glimpses of blue sky through the tracery of branches. It was decorated at intervals by drifting white clouds. It was quite beautiful and Brenda forgot all her ideas about this venture being sordid. This place was beautiful, romantic, like a Hollywood movie.

  Martin let go of her hand and raced ahead of her. Dropping his holdall at the base of a large oak tree, he pulled out a large grey blanket and spread it on the ground. As he did so, he looked up and grinned.

  ‘Come on, girl,’ he cried, and sitting down with a bump on the blanket, he beckoned her to join him.

  Brenda was to discover that Martin was not a man for foreplay. With him there was no hanging about. There was a job to be done and he was keen to get on with it right away. She had hardly lowered herself on to the blanket before he was fondling her breasts.

  ‘You’re an eager boy, aren’t you?’ she said with mock reproval.

  ‘You know I’m mad about you, Bren,’ he replied, his left hand making its way up her skirt.

  She smiled and lay back. She was happy to let him have his way with her. At least he was keen and he was a decent enough chap.

  She felt his fingers enter her and she couldn’t help herself: she gave a little chuckle. When, she thought, had she felt as desired as this? She couldn’t honestly remember. Perhaps, never.

  Sadly for Brenda it was all over in a matter of minutes. Poor old Martin was too excited. Once he’d achieved his erection, he could barely contain himself. A phrase her mother always used when they were coming back from their summer holidays when Brenda was a child suddenly came to mind: ‘Well, it was nice while it lasted,’ she’d say with a sigh. And it was. Brenda smiled and thought warm thoughts about Martin. It was nice while it lasted.

  ‘Fancy a fag?’ he said, struggling back into his trousers.

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’m fine.’ She was glowing and feeling good. She needed no nicotine rush. She gave Martin a kiss on the cheek and clambered to her feet and adjusted her clothing. She felt like dancing, swirling around, kicking up leaves like they did in the old movies. She wasn’t stupid enough to think that it was love – but at least it was passion of a sort. That was something she thought she’d seen the last of in her life. She wandered dreamily to the far end of the clearing.

  ‘Careful!’ Martin’s voice echoed eerily in the stillness. She turned towards him with a frown of puzzlement.

  ‘The ground drops away down there. I don’t want you tumbling into the stream at the bottom.’

  She grinned. ‘OK,’ she said, although she wanted to reply that she was quite capable of looking after herself. Martin was right, though: the ground did fall away sharply and suddenly into a narrow ravine. She gazed down and at the bottom she glimpsed the silver trail of a small meandering stream. In the quiet of the wood, she could hear the gentle rippling of its waters soft on the ear. It was all quite beautiful. It struck her that this serene place would have hardly changed in hundreds of years and yet less than a mile away there was that ferocious clamour and bustle of the twentieth century. 1985 was making its noisy presence felt. At certain sections the sunlight which filtered through the foliage touched the stream, gilding it, transforming it into a bright saffron ribbon. It made Brenda smile.

  As her eyes traced the route of the stream, her smile faded and her mouth opened gently. At first she was puzzled and uncertain. Then the cold shaft of apprehension and horror pierced her heart. Gingerly, she took a step forward, her high heels sinking into the soft damp earth, and, screwing up her eyes, peered at one certain section of the stream. She stared hard, frozen to the spot. Surely she was imagining it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Martin had come up behind her and although his query was spoken softly and couched in a pleasant tone, his close proximity shocked her and she stumbled forward, almost losing her balance.

  ‘Whoa, lady, I told you to be careful,’ he said, grabbing her arms and pulling her backwards on to slightly firmer ground.

  ‘Martin,’ she murmured, a tremble in her voice. ‘Down there.’ She pointed towards the stream. ‘Look.’

  ‘What you on about?’

  ‘Look,’ she repeated with some urgency.

  He did look and although he said nothing she could tell from his hardened features that he had seen it too.

  Eventually Brenda mouthed the thought that was in both their minds.

  ‘Is she dead?’

  Martin shook his head rapidly as though to dismiss the matter. ‘It’s just a bunch of old clothes
,’ he said, but there was no conviction in his voice.

  ‘It’s not,’ she said. ‘It’s … it’s a body.’

  ‘Well, even if it is, it’s got nothing to do with us.’

  Brenda stared at him in shocked disbelief. ‘What are you talking about? We can’t just leave it there. Ignore it.’

  ‘We can. We must.’

  ‘You can. I can’t,’ she said. ‘They might be alive. I’m going down there.’ She moved further to the edge of the slope.

  ‘Don’t be so daft. You’ll hurt yourself.’

  ‘We’ve got to go down, Martin.’

  He groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. He knew she was right but he didn’t want to do it. Whatever the consequences it meant trouble. The police. People would find out. His wife would find out. Find out what he was doing with a woman in the woods. All hell would break loose.

  Brenda tugged his arm. ‘Look, over there, there’s a bit of a track going down. It’s steep but I reckon we could make it.’

  Martin followed her glance and saw the shiny snail-like path that wound its way through the tufts of yellow grass down to the stream just a few yards from where the body lay.

  ‘I’ll go,’ he grunted. It was the last thing on earth he wanted to do.

  ‘And I’m coming with you,’ she said firmly.

  He was about to reply but held his tongue, for he knew that there was no arguing with the silly bitch.

  Together they made their way slowly down the muddy path, carefully gauging each foothold. Brenda slipped once and fell on her backside, but she managed to grasp a tuft of grass to stop her slithering all the way to the bottom. Eventually they reached the banks of the little stream without further mishap.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked, breathlessly, holding his hand out to help her make the final steps to the water’s edge.

  With her makeup awry, a sweaty face and a mud-smeared dress she looked and felt far from OK, but she nodded.

  As they approached the little figure lying in the stream they could see that it was a young girl. She was dressed in a bright yellow dress – a party dress, thought Brenda – which complemented her blonde curls. She lay immobile, face down in the water.

  ‘My God, she is dead,’ said Brenda, stifling a sob.

  Martin bent down by the body and with some effort turned it over.

  Brenda screamed when she saw the little girl’s face. It was covered in blood and her features were disfigured as though she had been badly beaten.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ sobbed Brenda. ‘The poor thing’s been murdered.’

  Martin leaned against the wall of the telephone box as he dialled 999. Brenda stood in the doorway, shivering and distraught. The box was dank and smelled of urine and sweat. Felt-tip obscenities decorated the window.

  ‘Emergency, which service?’ It was a woman’s voice, tinny and remote.

  ‘The police, I want to report …’ He paused, his mouth dry and his mind in a whirl. He couldn’t believe what he was about to say. ‘I want to report … a murder.’

  ‘I’m putting you through,’ came the reply – cool, calm and neutral.

  ‘Police. How can I help you?’ It was a man this time.

  ‘There’s been a murder. A little girl. In Mollicar Woods. She’s in the stream. Dead.’

  ‘And what’s your name, sir?’

  ‘You don’t want my name. You need to get the police to Mollicar Woods. A young girl. About eight or nine. Been killed. Beaten.’

  ‘And who are you, sir?’

  Martin was about to slam down the receiver when Brenda moved forward and pressed her body against his. ‘You’ve got to tell them, Martin. They’ll only find out and then it’ll be the worse for us.’

  He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the telephone ready to replace the receiver.

  ‘Go on,’ Brenda urged. ‘If you don’t, I will.’

  Martin closed his eyes in despair and placed the receiver to his ear. ‘My name is Martin Brook,’ he said, his voice flat and unemotional.

  FOUR

  Paul Snow woke abruptly, his body arched awkwardly under the covers, bathed in sweat. It was the dream again. The nightmare. The same bloody nightmare. Even after a year it came back to taunt him, to unsettle him. To take him to the brink and remind him of his sins. He felt the gun in his hand. He heard the crack as he pulled the trigger and he saw the shock and look of horror on the dying man’s face.

  But it was Snow, not the dying man, who cried out in agony at what he had done and the cry dragged him back to consciousness. He lay for a few moments staring at the ceiling until his pulse rate had returned to normal. It must have been that conversation he’d had with Bob about murderers being crazy that had stimulated the nightmare again. Well, not so much a nightmare as a reminder of the time when he had killed a man in cold blood to save his own neck.

  He lay in the darkness, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal, which it did after a little while. Accepting that this was all the sleep he was going to get that night – or indeed wanted that night, if it meant returning to these disturbing dreams – Snow sat up in bed, switched on the bedside light and reached for a pack of cigarettes and lighter.

  He lay against the pillow, smoking and trying to turn his thoughts away from the nightmare, but the images remained, vibrant and fierce at the forefront of his mind. He heard the gun going off once more, the sound echoing in his head like the shutting of an iron door at the end of a long dark corridor. He grimaced more out of irritation at his own weakness than at the unpleasant memories these sensations provoked.

  Stubbing his cigarette out with a heavy sigh, he threw back the covers, got out of bed, slipped on his dressing gown and padded downstairs to the kitchen, where he made himself a cup of strong instant coffee. Holding the warm mug in both hands, he sat in the gloom at the kitchen table as daylight gradually seeped into the room. At length shafts of sunlight formed pools of yellow light on the floor.

  It was going to be a nice day.

  Weatherwise, at least.

  After a second coffee and another cigarette, Snow began to feel more relaxed or at least his old self. He never considered that at any time in his life he was ‘relaxed’; his brain was too active to allow for that state of affairs. His mind was never in ‘neutral’; there was always something to think about.

  And something to worry about.

  Living alone, a solitary man, Paul was conscious of all his actions, monitoring his behaviour, his reactions to and treatment of others. It was as though he was constantly standing outside his own body observing himself. He was always on the alert to repress his feelings. Feelings that were not regarded as ‘normal’. These were dangerous – as he had found out in the past – and could easily spell the end of the career that he loved. He had to remain firmly in the closet. The poet John Donne had said that no man was an island. Well, thought Paul, I’m out to prove him wrong.

  Stubbing out his cigarette, he washed his mug, dried it and placed it back in the cupboard, emptied the ashtray and wiped down the work surface so that the kitchen looked as it did when he had first entered: tidy, and pristine. It was his way. He shaved and showered, washing some of the greyness of the night away, and then got dressed. He took pleasure in putting on a new shirt, enjoying the sensation of the cool material against his shower-warm skin. It was pale blue and he chose a blue and red striped tie to wear with it. He wasn’t an extravagant dresser but he took pride in always appearing smart. He was a stickler for tidiness in everything, including dress. Little did he know then that by the end of the day both his shiny black shoes and the turn-ups on his well-cut pin-striped suit would end up caked in mud.

  Snow was completing some routine paperwork concerned with the Andrew Beaumont arrest in his office around ten in the morning when Bob Fellows popped his head round his office door. ‘Got a missing person … young girl gone AWOL.’

  Snow sighed. He had been hoping for something interesting to turn up and take him away from this mun
dane task, but not that kind of interesting. This was nasty. Missing kids rarely had a happy ending.

  ‘OK,’ he said, closing the file on his desk. ‘Give me the low-down.’

  Bob filled his boss in on the background of the case as they drove out of Huddersfield to the district of Lindley, three miles from the town centre. Gillian, the nine-year-old daughter of Melanie and Carl Bolton, had been reported missing the previous evening. When she hadn’t returned home from playing out and it had begun to grow dark, the parents had gone out to search for her, without success. Then they had rung round her schoolfriends but to no avail. Slowly panic had begun to set in and the Boltons contacted the police. The couple had been visited by the village DS who had set up a local search. This too had been fruitless. So far.

  The Boltons’ house was one of many, all virtually identical, on a newish estate in the Lindley area. It was situated on Buttercup Close, a narrow cul-de-sac where the properties rubbed shoulders with each other and their driveways were scattered with pedal cars and prams and other kiddie stuff. To Snow these houses were the slums of the future. Cheaply constructed hutches with shoddy workmanship masked by superficial glamour which would fade within a year of purchase. Cracks would appear in the plaster, doors would warp, plumbing errors would materialise, the white goods would fail and the cheap all-inclusive carpets would wear thin. Five years down the line they would look worse than a clapped-out row of council houses. These estates depressed Snow more than he could say.

  He pressed the doorbell of number 23 and heard the mechanical musical tones of ‘Greensleeves’ playing in the hallway. The door was opened by a young woman aged somewhere in her late twenties, dressed in a short skirt and flowery top. Mrs Bolton was petite with a pretty face but it was pale and haggard. Her eyes were red with crying and her expression was uncertain, as though she didn’t know whether to be angry or sad.