Innocent Blood

by David Stuart Davies

  As he had gazed at that little body lying face downwards in the stream, he had felt not only a sense of relief, but also the pleasant glow of achievement. Now that he had succeeded once, he knew that he could continue with more confidence.

  He pulled his chair up to the single-bar electric fire and rubbed his chin. The beard was making progress. Who would have thought it? He, who had hated the idea of facial hair, who had loved the sensation of warm water softening the skin before the application of a sharp blade in the morning scraping away the stubble to reveal a smooth and shiny chin, would now revel in this shaggy unkempt look. He was beginning to look like a tramp. But then he was no longer the man he had once been. He was dead. Like the others.

  This thought brought tears to his eyes and he screwed up his face to expunge them immediately. Practical. Got to be practical. Time to leave this place now. Get the caravan and find some other place to camp out. Somewhere isolated, private and away from here. He looked around the old sitting room. It was really shabby now, not spotless as it had been when Maureen was alive. He hadn’t even tried to keep it tidy. Why should he? What would be the point? Yet it still bore some touches of his old life: the family pictures on the sideboard; Debbie’s old teddy propped up in the arm chair; her skipping rope and her school coat hanging on the back of the door. He suddenly felt a wave of nostalgia and overwhelming sadness crash down on him. He tolerated its presence for a few moments before hunching his shoulders violently and crying out loud. ‘Stop it! I don’t need this. It’s all bloody sentiment.’

  His words echoed around the room. And he felt calm again.

  There was no time for sentiment now. Not that kind of sentiment, anyway. He had to be focused, self-contained and determined. Just as he had been with the Bolton girl. He would wait a week, ten days maybe. By then the furore would have died down. Then he would throw more kindling on to the embers.

  SIX

  Snow re-read the pathology and forensics reports. Although they were detailed, they told him nothing of significance, nothing of relevance to the detection of the culprit that he could not have guessed himself. The most important details were the ones that had been proffered from the start: the girl was strangled and she had not been interfered with sexually. It was most likely that she had been murdered elsewhere and carried to the spot where she had been found. Forensics had discovered traces on her clothes which suggested she had been wrapped in some rough cloth, probably sacking. That was about it. No witnesses had come forward to say they had seen anything suspicious near or in the woods prior to the discovery of the body. And there was no indication as to the motive. It always came down to motive. Cases were much easier to solve if there was an obvious motive, but in this instance there was no clue as to what it could be – if indeed there was one at all. It certainly wasn’t sexually inspired. And all the motivations usually involved with adult murders such as revenge, envy, hatred, financial gain and so on could be ruled out when the victim was only nine years old.

  ‘Why this particular little girl?’ Snow murmured to himself, before slurping down a mouthful of hot coffee. ‘Why her? What was so special about her?’

  If he could answer that one, he would be much further down the line with the investigation. It was a question that he found repeating in a much gentler and more circumspect fashion in Carl and Melanie Bolton’s sitting room. It was like being in the company of ghosts. They both sat on separate seats, hunched over, pale, gaunt, all the life sucked out of them. They even moved like wraiths in gentle fluid movements as if they were making no impression on the air around them.

  Snow had wanted to avoid the cliché line ‘I know this is a difficult time for you but …’ As he had driven out to their house, he had desperately tried to come up with something more caring, more sympathetic, more original, but he had failed.

  ‘You see,’ he said gently, hoping the soft tones would help to ease the crudeness of his enquiry, ‘it is a matter of motive. We need to try and find out if there was a reason behind the crime. Maybe someone has a grudge against either of you and saw this as a means … of punishing you.’

  ‘By killing Gillian?’ Melanie Bolton asked with some incredulity.

  Snow nodded. ‘Yes. It has been known.’

  ‘That’s sick,’ said Carl.

  ‘Whoever killed our Gillian is sick,’ snapped Melanie without looking at her husband. Snow was aware that a gulf was already growing between them. He had seen this happen before: the loss of a loved son or daughter bred a kind of guilt which isolated each parent. They both felt responsibility while subconsciously apportioning blame to their partner. It was a symptom of the hurt that they were experiencing.

  ‘Can you think of anything, anyone who might fit that situation? Have there been rows with neighbours or work colleagues? Anything like that?’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ murmured Melanie. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Mr Bolton?’

  Carl shook his head wearily. ‘No.’

  ‘And Gillian was happy at school?’

  There was a pause and for the first time since entering the room both parents exchanged glances.

  ‘Gillian was … happy and enjoyed school but she had been a little sad of late.’

  ‘Why was that?’ asked Snow as gently as he could, leaning forward in his chair.

  ‘She lost some of her friends in a coach crash. Gillian was a member of the school choir and about six months ago they entered the Northern Championship in Manchester. On the way back the coach crashed and seven out of the twelve kids in the choir along with the driver, the choir mistress Mrs Niven and two parents were killed. It was terrible. Gillian hadn’t got over the experience, the loss of her friends. She still had nightmares about the crash.’

  ‘I see.’ Snow remembered the incident although he had no direct involvement with the policing of it. There was a terrible dark irony that the youngster had escaped death in the crash, only to fall victim to a vicious killer a few months later. Distressing though this scenario was, it wasn’t one that helped him now. There seemed no sense of motive there.

  ‘Isn’t it likely that this is some madman? A drugged-up arsehole who likes killing. Gets a fucking kick out of it, out of throttling a young ’un?’ Carl Bolton’s face rippled with anger and his body shook with emotion. His hands twitched as though he wanted to commit some act of violence to relieve his pent-up frustration. He had addressed this comment to the room, rather than Snow. ‘It seems to happen all the time now,’ he went on. ‘On the telly, in the papers: some twisted bastard playing games with kiddies’ lives for the fun of it while they run bloody circles round the police. You never catch the fuckers, do you?’

  Snow wasn’t about to argue. He knew that it was pain and anger speaking rather than reason. ‘We’ll try our best to bring to justice the person who took Gillian’s life,’ he said simply. He was aware how facile and pathetic these words sounded to the two wounded creatures who sat opposite him, but for the time being it was the best he could give them. He certainly wasn’t about to promise them that without doubt he would catch their daughter’s killer.

  With a sigh and a gentle smile, Snow rose and began making his way to the door. He turned and gazed at the couple, each caught and isolated in their own grief. Maybe it was that their daughter had been the only real link that they had with each other: the fragile glue that held a stale marriage together. Now she was gone they had nothing. It was not rare; Snow had seen it before. ‘Sorry to have bothered you,’ he said, ‘but please, if you do think of anything, however slight or apparently insignificant it seems, please let us know. Goodbye for now. I’ll let myself out.’

  It had played on Miranda’s mind for some time and had even stopped her sleeping properly. Now she had come to a decision. She needed to confide in her mum. Instinctively rather than rationally, she knew that in talking to her mother she would release some of the anguish she felt. Initially, she hadn’t regarded it as a secret but the longer she had kept it to herself it had grown int
o one, a dark and unpleasant secret, one that bred a strange sense of guilt within her. She needed to share that guilt, to release it.

  When Miranda got back from school, she found her mother, as usual, in the kitchen. She was chopping up some vegetables for their evening meal.

  ‘Hi, hon,’ she called over her shoulder. When the little girl did not reply as she usually did, she stopped what she was doing and turned round to face her, and saw the gloomy, tired expression on her daughter’s face.

  ‘What is it, baby? You had a bad day?’

  These kind words broke the dam and the girl ran to her mother and hugged her, while tears welled up in her eyes.

  ‘What is it, darling? What on earth’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s Gillian,’ sobbed Miranda, snuggling her face into her mother’s apron.

  ‘Of course it is.’

  Of course it was. Her mother was fully aware that losing a friend at her age was bad enough, but in such a terrible manner it must have eaten away at her little angel. Miranda had been so terribly brave about it, or so it seemed, but she must have been bottling it all up until now. She hugged her daughter tightly as her little body rippled and shook with sobs.

  ‘Let it all out, darling. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You loved Gillian, I know. Just remember she’s with the angels now. You can send a message to her in your prayers tonight.’

  Suddenly the girl pulled away and turned her red tear-stained face up towards her mother. ‘It’s not just that. I know something.’

  At these words, her mother felt a thin shaft of fear enter her body. ‘Something?’ she said, as easily as her dry mouth would allow.

  Miranda nodded.

  Her mother knelt down so that their faces were on a level. ‘What do you mean? What do you know? You can tell me.’

  Miranda ran her sleeve across her eyes in an attempt to mop up the surplus tears. ‘Gill and I had a row and we fell out.’

  ‘What about?’

  Miranda’s face screwed up again as the tears reappeared. ‘I can’t remember now. It was so stupid.’

  ‘That’s nothing to get upset about. Friends always fall out from time to time. That’s because they are so close. Daddy and I fall out sometimes, but we still love each other.’

  Miranda shook her head vigorously. ‘No, no, that’s not it.’

  ‘Well, you tell me what it is, eh?’ She leaned forward and planted a kiss on her daughter’s forehead.

  ‘We usually came home together but … on that day we had fallen out, Gill set off without me. She was very angry. I wanted to catch up with her but she walked so fast … so fast.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I was following her and then I saw her talking to a man with a van.’

  The shaft of fear intensified.

  ‘A man with a van …? What do you mean?’

  ‘He pulled up by the pavement and leaned out of the window to speak to her.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Miranda shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I was too far away to hear. But then she got into the van.’

  ‘She got … Are you sure about this? Very sure?’

  Miranda gave a strong affirmative nod. ‘And then they drove off.’

  Her mother rose and moved back to lean against the work surface to give herself some support. ‘Oh, my God,’ she mouthed, the words hardly audible.

  ‘Perhaps he was a bad man. The man that … I’m sorry for not telling you.’ Miranda began to cry again.

  ‘That’s all right, darling,’ said her mother, ruffling her daughter’s hair absent-mindedly while her thoughts were in free-fall. ‘At least you have done now.’ She glanced at the telephone on the wall. She knew that she would have to inform the police.

  It was Bob Fellows who took the call when it was passed on to the incident room. Snow was in the kitchen area making a brew. Bob jotted down the information and address and assured Mrs Stone that they’d be over at her house in quick sticks.

  ‘Breakthrough, guv,’ he cried as he popped his head around the door. ‘That coffee will have to wait.’

  SEVEN

  ‘What did this man look like?’

  Miranda had now grown shy and awkward. She had hoped that in telling her mum about Gillian and the man with the van, her mum would simply tell the police and that would be the end of it. She hadn’t reckoned on the police coming to her house. That really unnerved her. Now here she was on the sofa in her sitting room, facing this strange man with the long narrow face and penetrating eyes, being asked questions. He seemed a nice man. He looked kind of sad and rather too thin, but he was smart in his dark suit and shiny shoes. He had leaned close to her and spoke softly and she could also smell his aftershave. It was sort of bitter-sweet like pear drops.

  Snow had turned up at the house alone without his sergeant, thinking that two policemen invading the property might easily spook the young girl. It was clear to him now that his solo appearance had intimidated the girl. He should have brought DS Susan Morgan or a WPC with him maybe, someone who would be more attuned to dealing with youngsters. Despite assuring her in gentle terms that she was not in any trouble, the little girl seemed apprehensive and nervous in his presence.

  He repeated his question as mildly as he could: ‘What did this man look like?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Miranda said, biting her top lip nervously. ‘I only saw his head poking out of the van.’

  ‘Was he a young man or an old man?’

  Miranda shrugged and pursed her lips. ‘Oldish, I guess. I saw that he had a bald spot.’

  ‘Did he have dark hair or grey? Or perhaps he was blond like your mummy.’

  Instinctively Miranda looked at her mother and then shook her head. ‘He wasn’t blond. His hair was sort of ordinary. Brownish, I suppose.’

  ‘Did he have a beard or a moustache?’

  She paused and screwed up her face in thought. ‘I don’t think so. I can’t be sure. He might have had a beard. I think his chin was sort of dark.’ This uncertainty seemed to worry her and she glanced round at her parents for support. Her mother gave her an encouraging smile. ‘You’re doing fine, angel.’

  ‘Do you think anyone else saw Gillian get in the van?’ Snow asked.

  ‘Oh, no. I was the only one on that bit of the street. I had hurried to keep up with her, you see. I was going to try and make friends with her again …’ Miranda’s voice faltered and her eyes moistened.

  Snow touched her arm. ‘That’s all right, love. Don’t fret. What can you tell me about the van? What colour was it?’

  ‘It was brownish.’

  ‘Brownish?’

  ‘Like a biscuit.’

  ‘Light brown.’

  Miranda nodded.

  ‘Did it seem old or new?’

  ‘Old, I think. It looked dirty and a bit rusty.’

  ‘Do you remember any of the numbers on the number plate?’

  Miranda shook her head.

  ‘Or the make?’

  Another shake of the head.

  He knew these questions about the van were crucial. He might have had more luck if his witness had been a little boy, for they tended to be interested in vehicles. A lad might have noted more details about it, including the registration number, but girls were observant in different ways.

  ‘If I showed you pictures of some vans, do you think you could pick out the one you saw?’

  After a moment’s thought, she nodded. ‘I think so,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Is there anything else that you remember about the man or the van …?’

  The girl thought for a moment and then it looked like she was about to shake her head when she stopped. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘There was something. There was a sticker on the back window. Like a flag. A triangular flag. It was bright red with white or cream letters.’

  ‘Letters … what did they say?

  ‘It was something about Blackpool, I think. Yes, I think there was a drawing of Blackpool Tower on it.’
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  Snow smiled and patted her arm. ‘Well, thank you, Miranda. You’ve been brilliant,’ he said and rose to his feet.

  He was about to move away to address the parents when the little girl grabbed his sleeve. ‘You will catch him, won’t you?’ she asked. ‘You will catch that man who killed my friend?’

  It was late when Snow got back to the office. It was empty apart from Bob Fellows.

  ‘They’ve gone to the County. To celebrate Sue’s birthday,’ he said, slipping on his mac. ‘They’re expecting you to pop in.’

  Snow nodded wearily. This was the last thing he wanted. He was tired and he never felt comfortable in the social setting with his fellow officers. He reckoned he hadn’t the facility to switch off being their boss and convert into one of their mates. Hierarchies can’t function like that without something being lost. Respect? Allegiance? Discipline? He knew he was a prig about this but it was innate not learned and as such pretty well immutable. And for Snow small talk was a foreign language.

  ‘I’ll walk across with you,’ he said.

  As they strolled along Market Street and down Princess Street to the County, Snow filled in his sergeant with the details of his interview with Miranda Stone. ‘So, we need to get a set of pictures of small vans manufactured within the last ten years and see if she can pick one out for us.’

  Bob nodded but did not comment. Both men knew that even if the girl could spot the exact model they were still in the ‘needle-in-a-haystack’ territory.

  The County was an old-fashioned town pub. The décor hadn’t changed much since the fifties. It was full of mirrors, old leather-type seats, brass ornaments that could have done with a polish, and framed pictures of country scenes, all wreathed in a thick fug of cigarette smoke. As they entered, they could hear the jovial chatter from the small room at the back of the pub where the police officers had gathered.