Innocent Blood

by David Stuart Davies

  ‘They sound merry,’ observed Snow.

  ‘They’ve been here over an hour.’

  ‘A pint?’

  ‘Thanks, sir. I’ll have Tetley’s.’

  Snow ordered and then they took their foaming pints into the small room. The fuggy, noisy atmosphere embraced them as they entered.

  ‘Cheers, sir,’ cried out PC Woodcock in greeting. He was a lanky, still-wet-behind-the-ears youngster who hadn’t quite mastered the niceties of dealing with superior officers. Others in the group gave more sedate nods and muttered respectful welcomes. The unwritten rule in the culture was never get too pally with those in ranks above you.

  ‘Where is the birthday girl?’ said Snow, acting out his part as the jovial boss.

  ‘I’m here, sir.’ The voice came from behind him and he turned and saw DS Susan Morgan. She wore a paper hat and a rather woozy grin. ‘Glad you could make it.’

  Snow raised his glass. ‘Happy birthday, love.’ He clinked her glass. He was fond of Susan. She was a sensible, no-nonsense police officer and thoroughly reliable. Although at the moment she looked as though she was on the way to being inebriated.

  ‘Come and sit down, sir,’ she said, patting the space on the bench by her.

  Snow obliged and this was a signal for the various conversations and raucous noise to resume.

  ‘I’m not sure that when you get to my age you should celebrate birthdays,’ she said, staring down into her drink.

  Snow laughed. ‘You talk as though you’re ancient. You’re a young woman yet. Don’t forget it.’

  She smiled a dreamy smile at him. ‘Really. Do you think so?’

  Snow gazed at her. She was a pretty woman in her mid-thirties. She’d had a difficult private life, including a nasty divorce, the stress and strain of which still showed in her features even in repose. She lived alone and her whole existence, it seemed to Snow, was now focused on her police work. Not unlike himself in many respects.

  ‘You got any plans for your birthday?’ he asked. He knew he was beginning to struggle already. He had wandered into the mire of small talk.

  ‘Apart from getting blathered in here, you mean?’ She giggled.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, grinning despite himself, ‘apart from that.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Just an early night in preparation for the hangover in the morning.’ She smiled again but the eyes were sad.

  Snow made no response, simply because he couldn’t think of one.

  ‘It gets sort of lonely at times, doesn’t it? I mean you’re a bit like me … in the sense that you’ve no family, no partner, just an empty place to go back to.’

  It was a theme that Susan had touched on before with Snow. He knew she was right but he really didn’t want to go down that particular avenue.

  He grinned and raised his hand. ‘You’ve a room full of friends, all happy for you.’

  Susan gave him a strange look. Suddenly she seemed very sober and astute. ‘A room full of friends,’ she repeated flatly. ‘A room full of friends.’

  They both gazed around at the assembled throng, each chatting, drinking, smiling, each absorbed in their own little cocoon.

  Susan raised an eyebrow and Snow knew exactly what she meant.

  EIGHT

  A week passed without any real progress or development in the investigation of the murder of Gillian Bolton. This was the usual rhythm of a murder case, unless something sensational turned up. And nothing sensational had turned up. So after the initial flurry of activity came the depressing lull. The case was flat-lining. Snow was used to it, but that did not mean that it made it any the less frustrating. It all added to his sense of impotence and incompetence. He was aware that the parents of the little girl and the general public who were following the case would see the police as lacking or slacking. Clueless and incompetent. Yet another unsolved crime.

  Miranda had identified the kind of van she thought her friend had got into, but both Snow and Bob Fellows could tell from the girl’s demeanour and the nervous flicker of her eyes as she pointed it out that she was not really sure. It was an educated guess at best. She wanted to please them and her parents and more than anything to have done with the matter. However, a call had gone out to check on a fawn-coloured Ford Cavalier, registered in the area within the last ten years. It was a faint hope but at least it was a hope.

  Snow had also to deal with a wodge of paperwork on the Andrew Beaumont case. This, he thought wryly, kept him out of mischief. After seven days, the girl’s murder had disappeared from the newspapers, even the local one, and there was no mention in the television bulletins any more. Well, it simply was no longer important. Not to them, anyway.

  ‘They’re just waiting for an arrest … or another victim,’ observed Bob Fellows.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Snow, knowing all too well that his sergeant was right.

  Later that day, Snow, as usual, was the last to leave the office, or so he thought. He was just about to turn the lights off when DS Susan Morgan wandered out of the little kitchen area.

  ‘Still here,’ he said automatically, immediately aware that it was a stupid redundant observation and he regretted making it.

  Susan nodded. ‘I was waiting to have a word.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She glanced down, examining her fingernails. ‘About the other night. In the pub. I hope … I hope I wasn’t too familiar.’

  Snow gave her one of his crooked little grins. ‘You were a little squiffy. But you were allowed. It was your birthday, after all.’

  ‘Maybe. You see … I was trying to pluck up courage. The drink was going to give me the nerve. But it didn’t quite work. It gave me cold feet instead.’

  Snow had an awful premonition where this was going, but he remained silent and still.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to do it for ages.’ She grinned shyly and took a deep breath. ‘You see, I really like you and I reckon we’re paddling in similar canoes: single and rather lonely …’

  He meant to stop her there but he couldn’t. He couldn’t be so brutal.

  ‘I was going to ask you out,’ she said boldly. She was looking at him now, her blue eyes focusing on his face. ‘On a date,’ she added as an afterthought, as though she hadn’t made herself clear. She sighed and bit her lip. ‘There … I’ve said it.’ She paused a moment, waiting for Snow to respond, but he didn’t so she carried on: ‘It doesn’t always have to be the bloke that does the asking. I mean we live in a society where there are equal rights …’ She chuckled nervously.

  Snow found himself lost for words. His mind searched for the most appropriate response to this unexpected situation but without much success. He liked Susan and enjoyed her company but of course a romance or any kind of relationship was out of the question. He knew he had to let her down as gently as possible while at the same time giving no hints or suggestions as to his real sexual orientation. That last phrase seemed so pompous and silly to him at this particular moment. He knew how hurtful rejection could be and in this case it had nothing to do with how he felt about Susan. He liked her. He was fond of her. He had no desire to hurt her. It was just, to use her imagery, that his canoe was paddling in the opposite direction. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  In the end it was Susan herself who came to his rescue. ‘I’ve embarrassed you. I’m sorry. Perhaps it was a bad idea,’ she said, sensing Snow’s reluctance.

  A lifeline! And Snow grabbed it. ‘No, no, it’s not that, but you know relationships in the same team are frowned on – discouraged.’ It was a little lame but it would have to do. He still felt cruel and unfeeling saying it.

  ‘Especially between a Detective Inspector and a lowly DS, eh?’ Susan gave him a half-hearted smile and took a step back.

  Snow knew it couldn’t end like this. Some reparation was necessary. He moved forward and touched her arm. ‘Rank really has nothing to do with it. Believe me. But life would get very tangled if … Well, you know what I mean. I’m sorry. It would
be nice … under different circumstances. I guess I’m married to the job. Anyway … to be honest I reckon I’m not good enough for you.’ He leaned close and kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘You deserve someone better.’

  He knew the words were crass; he just hoped that the gesture would be understood and accepted.

  ‘Someone better,’ she repeated softly, her eyes tearing up now. She turned quickly and headed for the door. Snow caught the words ‘Goodnight, sir,’ before the door swung shut.

  Snow emitted an inarticulate groan as he slammed his fist down on the desk. Why was life so bloody difficult?

  NINE

  That was another one over. Thank heavens. Urgh! How she hated them. Those horrible piano lessons. Her mum and dad were monsters, forcing her to go on with this torture when she had told them just how much she hated having to go to Mrs Perkins for an hour every week for the rotten lessons. It was torture. She had begged them to let her give up. But no. They would not budge. She had tried to convince them that she really had no talent for playing the piano but still they wouldn’t listen. She wasn’t getting any better either. She knew it. In fact she was getting worse. It took her all her time to concentrate while Mrs Perkins harped on about ‘straight back’ and ‘spread your fingers, Angela’. Dreary old bag. And she smelt too. Her mum said it was lavender water but Angela thought it was wee. The old bag must be nearly a hundred. She had thin wispy grey hair that she wound around her head in a weird and complicated fashion and held in place with a leather brooch-like contraption at the back. Despite all the powder she plonked on her face, she couldn’t hide all those lines that criss-crossed her ancient phizzog. And another thing: she had never seen a Mr Perkins. He could be dead, of course. Or run away to get away from that strange hair, white crinkled face and the smell of wee, but Angela reckoned there had never been a Mr Perkins. No one would want to marry the silly, smelly old thing. She had made the Mrs bit up just to appear normal and respectable.

  As Angela shut the front door of Mrs Perkins’ cottage, she gave a sigh of relief. At least it would be another seven days before she would have to return. Of course, there were the practice sessions at home but at least she was on her own then. If only her mum and dad would let her concentrate on her singing. That’s what she liked best and she knew that’s what she did the best as well.

  She walked down to the end of the street, the spring evening already fading. She’d get home and watch a bit of telly and then it would be time for bed.

  ‘Excuse me. I’m looking for Bradley Street,’ said a voice close to her.

  She turned and found herself facing a tall, rather dishevelled man, wearing a long raincoat and a scruffy flat cap. In one hand he held a sheet of paper.

  ‘Do you know where this is?’ he asked, moving nearer and holding out the sheet of paper.

  Angela could see there was an address on the paper but it was written in pencil, in wild indecipherable handwriting. She peered closer. As she did so, the man suddenly clamped his other hand around her mouth. He had a pad in it. It smelt funny and strong, like disinfectant. The fumes filled her mouth and nose and soon began to affect her vision and then her brain. She struggled at first, her legs kicking wildly, but then she seemed to lose all her energy. She felt very weak and all the sounds started to fade as though she was going deaf, and it grew very dark. Within seconds she had blacked out.

  The man scooped her up and hauled her body into the back of a van that was parked by the kerb. There was no one else about.

  Inside the van, the man secured the girl’s hands and legs with some rope and taped over her mouth. With a satisfied smile, he clambered out, slammed the rear door shut and locked it. Within seconds he was in the driving seat and turning the ignition. He was hugely satisfied. It had all gone like clockwork.

  It wasn’t long before the smile had disappeared from his lips. The clever part of the operation was over. Now came the really hard bit. He wasn’t a violent man by nature. Circumstances had made him one. It was just that he had to stoke himself up like some kind of fiery boiler in readiness for the final act. He had to remember the pain, the anguish and the fury. As he drove, he conjured up images in his mind to reassure himself that he was doing the right thing, that he could do the right thing, that he would do the right thing.

  Within twenty minutes he had reached the chosen spot, a woodland area accessed down a steep path on Heaton Road. He pulled the van off the road into a little copse and turned his headlights off. He sat patiently, waiting for it to fall fully dark. When he was ready, he climbed over the driver’s seat into the back of the van and gazed at the young girl lying there. He hesitated for a fraction but he knew he had to act before she woke up. He didn’t want a repeat of the tussle he’d had last time. It would be better for her too.

  He leaned forward and clamped his hands around her throat. He applied pressure, gently at first and then harder. The girl stirred and a strange rasping noise emanated from the tape covering her mouth. Briefly, her unseeing eyes opened and seemed to stare accusingly at him. He turned away but tightened his grip on the girl’s neck. The feel of the smooth, supple and vulnerable skin gave him strength. Now he could do it. Now, he almost enjoyed it. Her body stirred gently at first and then she squirmed more vigorously in her death throes, as though experiencing a bad dream. His fingers tightened even more. He could feel her windpipe crushing under the force. She emitted a muffled cry and then with a final shudder, the girl lay still.

  He fell back against the inner wall of the van, his eyes filled with tears and his chest heaving with sobs.

  Sometime later, having wrapped the girl’s body in a large sheet of rough sacking, he carried it down through the woods towards the large pool that lay at the bottom of the slope. The water lay still and black like treacle under the darkened sky. He struggled on to the short wooden jetty used by anglers. He took the body out of its wrapping and, with as much effort as he could muster, he hurled it into the pool. There was a gentle splash and initially it disappeared from sight, but then with grim inevitability it slowly returned to the surface, a white elbow just breaking the surface of the scummy water.

  He wrapped up the sacking and with one final look at the body floating just beneath the surface of the pool, he made his way up the slippery path back to the van. He was neither elated nor sad. He felt numb. But he was conscious that his job was not yet half done.

  TEN

  ‘Certainly looks like the same fellow – if a fellow it be, as you might say,’ observed Chris McKinnon, as he rose from his crouching position to face Paul Snow.

  ‘Strangled?’

  McKinnon nodded. ‘Virtually identical to the other one. But no bruises around the face this time. He’s getting better with practice.’

  Snow gave the pathologist a withering glance. He knew this gallows-type humour was typical of the breed and in many ways helped them to cope with the ghoulish nature of their profession, but it did effectively remove any sympathetic concern for the victim and that was too harsh for Snow’s sensibilities. He gazed down at the corpse of the young girl and felt infinitely sad.

  ‘If you’re right,’ Snow said at length, ‘it’s likely that we have a serial killer on our hands – and those bastards prove to be not only cunning but barmy too: a devilish combination. Logical, practical policing is useless when you get one of those weird sods rampaging about the countryside killing young kids.’

  McKinnon wanted to say, ‘Not my problem’, but he had enough sense to gauge Snow’s mood and hold the comment back. It might be a smart riposte, and indeed true, but it wouldn’t help his relationship with Snow. Instead he resorted to a weary shrug.

  Bob Fellows joined them at the waterside. ‘Just had a call from HQ,’ he said. ‘A young girl matching this one’s appearance went missing last night. Angela Cleeves. She never returned home from her music lesson.’

  ‘Better get DS Morgan to go and see the parents. Get a photo of the lass. No point in putting them through an identification proce
dure until we’re fairly certain. If this is Angela, then we’ll need the usual background material. Could you follow that up in due course, Bob?’

  Fellows gave a mock salute. ‘Righto, sir.’ He then cast a glance down at the mud-stained body which lay just a few feet away. ‘A pretty lass.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Snow. ‘She was.’

  It transpired, as Snow had expected, that the corpse that had been found floating in the pond in Heaton woods was indeed that of Angela Cleeves. Bob had arranged for the parents to identify the body formally and to gather what detail he could about the girl and in particular her movements the previous evening. Snow had gone through this harrowing procedure with the Boltons and he was determined to give this one a miss. He knew he was a coward, avoiding being there when Angela’s mother and father saw their daughter for the last time, when the white sheet was pulled back to reveal the stark, pallid face of their little girl, her glassy eyes staring into space, the hair scraped back and the livid, dark bruises all around her neck. It would break the heart of the sternest of men and he was far from that. He had no desire for children himself, but he empathised with anyone who lost one in such cruel circumstances. It was the senseless waste in the destruction of innocence that affected him the most. These youngsters had not been in the world long enough to warrant suffering any harm, let alone their lives being snuffed out in such a vicious and violent fashion.

  He stayed late at the office that night. Somehow he just couldn’t face going home and pretending to return to some sort of normality, not when he knew it was up to him to prevent any more kids falling prey to this madman. He felt guilty enough after they had got nowhere after the first murder, but now he would really have to raise his game. This wasn’t a one-off killer. The beast had started a pattern. There would be more bodies, more grieving parents, if he didn’t come through.