Innocent Blood

by David Stuart Davies

  Snow nodded. He knew that the general consensus was that the driver was probably the cause of the crash, despite the coroner’s verdict of death by misadventure.

  ‘And, do you know, the tragedy didn’t end there – there out on those cold damp moors.’

  Snow shook his head gently. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Debbie Hirst, one of the lasses who copped it that night. Her mother topped herself. She couldn’t stand the pain of the loss. It was too much for her so she clambered up on a bridge over the M62 and jumped off. Terrible, isn’t it? What the cruel death of someone dear to you can do. It messes up your mind. But I tell you this, Inspector, I wish I’d been on the coach that night. It would have been better if we’d gone together, Glo and I. I miss her so much it bloody well hurts – hurts more than the cancer. There’s nothing here for me now. We had no children of our own so I’m left here with nothing. Nothing but the telly and the crossword, biding my time, waiting for death, waiting for the damned cancer to finally claim me.’

  When Snow got back to the office, he found Bob Fellows hovering around his office door with a big grin plastered across his face.

  ‘Bit of a breakthrough, boss.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘That lass, Miranda Stone … She’s seen the van again. And she got its number.’

  A small electric thrill ran through Snow’s body. This was potentially very good news indeed.

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Well, the girl was in town and she saw the van. She recognised it.’

  ‘Because of its colour and the Blackpool sticker she mentioned?’

  ‘The colour, yes, but inevitably the sticker had been removed, but she looked closely and saw the triangular outline where it had been.’

  ‘Clever girl.’

  ‘Very clever because she also had the presence of mind to write down the number plate this time.’

  ‘Excellent. Did she see the driver?’

  Bob shook his head. ‘ Apparently the van was empty. She was on her own and she was too scared to hang around.’

  ‘Very sensible of her but a pity she didn’t get a glimpse of him. Where was the van parked?’

  ‘At the top of town near the ABC cinema.’

  ‘Have you traced it yet?’

  ‘We’re on it now.’

  ‘Well,’ said Snow, ‘that’s potentially the best bit of news we’ve had for a while.’

  The word ‘potentially’. Snow knew not to be so sanguine in situations like this. Some clues were like bubbles: you could chase them a while but if you tried to manhandle them, they vanished into thin air. As it turned out in this case, his cynical vibes proved accurate. This potential break in the case was too good to be true. An hour later, Bob came to his office, his face gloomy and shoulders hunched.

  ‘The van was reported stolen from a garage forecourt a month ago,’ he said without preamble.

  Snow nodded. ‘It was to be expected, I suppose, but one always lives in hope.’

  ‘Hope is the bread and butter of the police force.’

  Snow raised his eyebrows at this observation. ‘Is that the family motto?’

  Bob smiled. ‘Sort of, actually. My dad used to say that all the time. He was only a humble PC but he knew the form.’

  ‘I reckon he did. Well, at least we’ve learned that our fellow hasn’t left the scene. He’s still around Huddersfield, so get a message out to the troops to be extra vigilant. If a little girl can spot the van on a busy street in town, God help us, one of our sharp-eyed coppers should be able to match her.’

  Bob gave a salute. ‘It shall be done.’

  ‘We’d better hold the number back from the press for the time being. Once it becomes public, the devil will ditch the van immediately.’

  ‘Good thinking, sir.’

  When he was alone again, Snow glanced at his watch. It was well after five now. He was weary and ready to call it a day. The thought of trudging home and making himself some makeshift meal filled him with gloom. His cooking skills were limited at the best of times and the way he felt now, he reckoned he’d make a mess of a cheese sandwich, let alone anything more ambitious. He decided on the spur of the moment to treat himself to an Indian. It had been a while since he’d been to the Shabab and he reckoned that a spicy madras curry would go down a treat. It might well help to spice up his thinking on the case.

  The Shabab was only a five-minute walk from police HQ and Snow enjoyed the stroll, breathing in the cool early evening air. He walked through the door at the restaurant just after six. The atmosphere was heady with rich and pungent spices, and before he had been shown to his table, their potency had made him feel very hungry. He ordered a lager while he perused the menu. At this stage of the evening, the restaurant was quiet, with many empty tables. There were several solitary diners, individuals like himself, Snow assumed, with no one at home to share a meal with. It was times like this that he realised how isolated he was. There was no one close to him. No one whom he could confide in, to hold him tightly, to love him. The combination of his job and his sexuality made it essential that he kept that invisible barrier, that shield as he thought of it, around himself in order to function and survive. But it was times like this, sitting alone in a restaurant, that his heart ached for companionship – for some sort of ordinary life.

  He ordered a chicken madras curry and another lager from the young, attentive Asian waiter and then tried to turn his thoughts away from himself and return to his current investigation. It wasn’t easy and, as he struggled with his mindset, a shadow fell across his table and a voice addressed him.

  ‘Hello again,’ it said, softly but in a cheerful tone.

  Snow looked up and saw Colin Bird standing by his table. ‘I thought it was you,’ he said.

  Snow nodded. ‘Yes, it’s me. Last time I looked anyway.’

  ‘On your own?’

  Snow looked around him. ‘Seem to be,’ he said, hating himself for all this forced irony.

  Bird gave him an indulgent grin and Snow knew what was coming next. He also knew what he would have to say.

  ‘Well, do you mind if I join you?’ It was now his turn to gaze around in an exaggerated fashion. ‘It seems that I’m on my own, too.’

  Snow grinned. ‘Help yourself,’ he found himself saying, indicating the chair beside him.

  Bird sat down. ‘Thanks. I’ve been promising myself a curry all day. It was the only way I could tolerate the pile of paperwork that’s been dumped on my desk. It’s little treats that keep you going in this job. I bet you’re the same.’

  ‘Sort of,’ replied Snow. ‘I thought I’d give the microwave a rest tonight.’

  Bird nodded. ‘I know what you mean.’

  God, thought Snow, how long can this excruciating bloody small talk go on? Instead of a relaxing meal, this was going to be sheer torture.

  ‘We must stop bumping into each other like this,’ said Bird suddenly. There was no lightness of touch or humour in his voice. ‘Here and Sherwood’s. Do you go there often?’

  Trick question, thought Snow. He wasn’t sure what this guy was after – on which side of the divide he stood. In response, he gave a slight shake of the head, hoping that would draw a line under the subject.

  ‘I like it a lot,’ said Bird, leaning forward, his unblinking stare focused on Snow. ‘A lot,’ he repeated.

  At this point the waiter arrived to take Bird’s order. Snow was irked that he was now lumbered with a dining companion he didn’t want and one that was probing a little too delicately for his liking. What was his game?

  He took a gulp of cool lager to help steady his nerves. The food ordered, the two men sat back and for a moment there was an uncomfortable silence. Snow had no real idea which way to take the conversation. He certainly wanted to move it away from anything personal. Either this man was probing about his sexual predilections with a view to exposing him or – and this thought surprised him when it came unbidden to his mind – he was a gay man seeking a fri
end of the same persuasion.

  ‘You’re on these nasty murders of the two young lasses at the moment, aren’t you?’ Bird said at last.

  How the devil did he know that? thought Snow. He must have been checking up on him.

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘It’s a difficult one.’

  ‘Motive?’

  ‘Not established yet. I’m convinced the crimes aren’t random but the link between the victims is fragile, tentative.’ Snow was relieved that the conversation had shifted to police work – it was certainly more comfortable than the subject of Sherwood’s and its implications – but he didn’t care to discuss his investigations in detail, especially with someone who was not on his team. ‘What about yourself?’ he asked, hoping to move the focus.

  Bird smiled. ‘Same old. Same old. Very routine stuff in our neck of the woods. Nothing glamorous like a grisly homicide.’

  Snow gave a sour grin. ‘Nothing glamorous about it, I assure you. There are some days when I’d gladly be racing down the M62 doling out a few speeding tickets.’ Both men laughed and the atmosphere eased.

  Later on, thinking back over the evening, Snow could not quite pinpoint exactly when things got easier, more relaxed and friendly, nor what he and Bird actually talked about. He knew that Sherwood’s never came up again and that he managed to steer clear of his murder case, but the rest had evaporated from his memory. However, it was true that, with a warm curry inside him and a couple more lagers, he felt surprisingly relaxed and comfortable in the company of Colin Bird. He was a few years younger than Snow, with short cropped blond hair topping a pugnacious but not unpleasant face, which bore what his father would have called ‘a Roman nose – roamin’ all over his face’. Bird was somewhat on the heavy side and possessed a certain charm which Snow observed he could switch on and off as it pleased him.

  It was dark as the two men emerged from the restaurant. Snow was aware that he was slightly over the alcoholic limit to drive home and so was his dining companion.

  ‘Taxis for both of us, I think.’

  ‘Are you saying we call it a night …?’

  ‘I think we must. Well, I must. I need to be fresh and on my toes in the morning.’

  ‘Ah, work: the curse of the drinking classes.’

  The two men laughed.

  ‘We must do this again,’ said Colin, squeezing Snow’s arm.

  ‘Sure.’ And Snow surprised himself by meaning it.

  ELEVEN

  He knew he should wait. Wait longer. His commonsense instincts told him that. Screamed at him that this was the case, but as usual he knew he was going to let his emotions overrule the caution. He was eager to complete his task. He wanted it to be over. He needed to finish what he had started before he was caught. That would spoil everything. And ‘waiting for the dust to settle’, the phrase he used to himself, would only give the police greater time to collect clues, sum up evidence and be on to him. No, he convinced himself, he needed to get on with things. Strike while his emotions were hot. He needed to commit the next murder.

  Asia Chowdry left her group of friends in the playground and with some reluctance set her feet for home. It was annoying to her that she had no time to have fun with her schoolmates. She had duties at home to perform. As her mother was fond of telling her, she was part of the family and therefore she had to serve the family. Serve meant cleaning, looking after her younger brother and making meals for granny, who was now too ill to come downstairs.

  ‘Once your schooling is done, you must come straight home and help in the home. It is your duty, young lady.’

  ‘Yes, mother,’ she would reply, avoiding the fearsome gaze and staring at the floor. It was inappropriate to show her resentment at being treated like a servant, but she felt it all the same.

  Refusal was out of the question. But resentment was not.

  Asia cast an envious glance back at the playground where her friends, noisy and animated, were having a great time. Ginny Bradshaw waved at her and smiled.

  Asia returned the gesture in a half-hearted fashion and then turned her back and began to move away. If she was late, she would get a scolding. As she trudged along the street, she had no notion that a van was keeping pace with her. She also had no notion that she would not get home that night, or any other night.

  Snow received the call around eight that evening. He was just about to sit down and watch some mindless television programme for an hour or so before heading for bed. As a man with no family and few friends, he knew that an evening call could mean only one thing. It was professional. And that meant trouble.

  It was Susan on the line. In her businesslike manner, she gave him the gist. A girl had been reported missing. She was of a similar age to the two who had been murdered. Asia Chowdry was her name. A good girl. The mother was distraught.

  There was nothing definite, of course, but they both knew they could not ignore the possibility that there was a link with the murder case.

  ‘Keep me up to speed if there are any developments,’ he said.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  They both knew what ‘developments’ really meant. Snow’s heart was heavy as he replaced the receiver. So soon. Not another dead girl. Please, God, no.

  And then something sparked in Snow’s brain. It was the girl’s name. It was beautiful and unusual: Asia. So unusual that he remembered it.

  Or thought that he had.

  With lightning speed he rushed to the hallway and retrieved his case notes from his briefcase which he had abandoned there. Returning to the sitting room, he sat on the edge of the sofa and riffled through the sheets of paper until he found the page that he wanted.

  He stared at it open mouthed. My God, that slender thread he had talked about had suddenly become much stronger. He gazed down at the names on the list: Gillian Bolton, Angela Cleeves and Asia Chowdry had all been on the coach that fatal night when the crash had occurred. They had been on the coach and they had survived.

  Was this crazy bastard picking off those young kids who had lived? If this were the case, this was madness heaped upon madness. Snow closed his eyes and shook his head, hoping that he was wrong.

  Slowly he moved into the kitchen and made himself a strong coffee and read through the whole set of case files again.

  About the time Snow was trawling through his notes, PC Alan Hargreaves was walking his beat around the old Beast Market area of Huddersfield, down at the bottom end of town. He was conscientious but bored. He hadn’t joined the force to pound the pavement, although he knew that this was inevitably part of the process of becoming a proper policeman. You had to serve your time on the streets before you could contemplate going plain clothes. He’d been doing this for six months now and for his pains he had arrested two drunks, a soliciting tart and a flasher. Hardly the Sweeney, was it, he moaned to his mates. And they had laughed. He knew he’d have to pay his time, as his sergeant was always telling him, but it still did not stop him being impatient.

  As he passed down by the Huddersfield Hotel, he saw the van. It appeared to have stalled by the traffic lights. The engine was ‘coughing its guts up’, as Hargreaves later reported, black smoke billowing out of its exhaust, but it was refusing to function. Hargreaves stood at some distance, observing the vehicle for a while. In some ways it fitted the description of the one they had all been told to keep a sharp eye out for. It was a dull, light-brown Ford transit with a rusty bumper. His hand reached for his breast pocket to bring out his notebook and check the registration number against the one he had been given. Unbuttoning the pocket, he felt inside. The notebook was not there.

  ‘Shit!’ he cursed violently. He remembered immediately that he had taken it out at the station to note something down and had placed it casually on the top of his locker. That’s where it still was. He could see it in his mind’s eye – taunting him.

  ‘Shit,’ he said again.

  Still, he did remember that there were 4 and 3 involved and the vehicle before him had such numbers on its d
irty registration plate. And he remembered that there was something about the outline of a triangular sticker on the back.

  With some excitement, PC Hargreaves drew closer to the van and saw that there was indeed a triangular outline on the rear window where a pennant had once been. And the window was blacked out. The back of Hargreaves’ neck began to tingle and his heart began to thud against his chest as he realised the importance of this moment. With some deliberation he moved into the road and walked around to the driver’s side and tapped gently on the window.

  The man inside, his features indistinct in the dully illuminated cab, was busily turning the ignition key and thumping the accelerator in a desperate attempt to get the thing moving but the engine just whined and juddered to no effect. The policeman’s arrival and tap on the window pane made the man jump and he emitted a sharp cry of shock.

  Hargreaves made a miming motion to indicate that the driver should wind his window down. Instead of doing so, the driver pulled back into the shadows of the cab.

  ‘Open up, please sir,’ ordered Hargreaves.

  But the man seemed to have disappeared from sight. The policeman tried the handle but the door was locked and then, to his surprise, he saw the door at the far side of the vehicle swing open.

  My God, thought Hargreaves, the bugger’s getting out the passenger’s side. He’s making a run for it.

  The policeman raced around the front of the van in time to see the driver sprinting down the street. Hargreaves gave chase. His quarry had a good thirty yards’ lead on him, but the fleet-footed copper soon began to gain ground. And then suddenly, the man slowed down and ran up the steps of an adjacent building and disappeared inside. It was the entrance to the Huddersfield Hotel.