Innocent Blood

by David Stuart Davies

  What on earth had that John Hall done? John Hall? Well, that obviously wasn’t his real name. He must have carried out some really terrible crime to warrant all this fevered activity. Amos suddenly shuddered as a thought struck him. Friggin’ hell, he could have been a killer. I could have been murdered in my bed. I reckon I’ve had a friggin’ lucky escape.

  Outside, Snow stood quietly by the caravan while the SOCOs got on with the job. Sean Quigley, the officer in charge, appeared at the door and beckoned to him. ‘There’s nothing of obvious significance as I can see, sir,’ he said. ‘The guy has covered his tracks very carefully. It’s as though he was expecting the caravan to be found.’

  Snow nodded to indicate that this assessment was in line with his own thinking.

  ‘However …’ Quigley allowed himself a brief smile. ‘I have found something.’ With a cheesy dramatic gesture, reminiscent of an end-of-the-pier magician, he produced a transparent polythene envelope from behind his back. It contained two black and white photographs. Snow took the envelope and scrutinised the photographs. One, the smaller of the two, was an informal snap of a young girl aged around eight years old. She was smiling at the camera in a shy way. It was very fuzzy and her features were in shadow but there was something about the girl that struck a chord with Snow – but he didn’t know what. He had seen a copy of the other photograph before. It was a more formal shot of the Marsdale Choir. What was rather chilling was that all the faces of the young girls, apart from two, had a black cross marked across their faces.

  Snow gave an involuntary shudder.

  ‘Where did you find these?’

  ‘Under the knifebox in the kitchen drawer, covered up by an old tea towel.’

  ‘Get these tested for fingerprints and then let me have them pronto. I want to find the identity of this girl.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Quigley, puffing out his chest a little. He knew he had hit some kind of jackpot.

  He sat near the school gates in his new van – new to him, that was. This rattle trap was at least fifteen years old and probably wouldn’t make it to sixteen. But it had been all he could afford. Money was running out now and he still had his mission to complete. Two more deaths to arrange. And it wasn’t going to be easy. Not now. The police were obviously on to his game. He could see Elizabeth Saunders accompanied by a police officer collecting her from school. Obviously she was there to protect the girl. The cops had worked out that she was a probable target, which meant they were putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Very soon they would get to the key missing piece: him.

  The policewoman took hold of the girl’s hand, chatting in a jolly fashion as she led her to the police car at the end of the road. They drove off, disappearing into a stream of traffic.

  What the hell was he to do now? How could he get to the girl? No doubt the other one would be similarly chaperoned. He knew that he hadn’t the luxury of time to wait. He needed to act fast. Doors were shutting in his face very quickly. Something drastic had to be done. What, he wasn’t quite sure yet, but he now accepted that others might have to be harmed in the process. He had realised very early on that this might be the case and he must not flinch now. He must not be stopped in his mission. After all, he had the right of justice on his side.

  Paul Snow had just started washing up after his evening meal when the doorbell rang. He frowned and moved to the front door apprehensively. He never had unexpected visitors in the evening unless they were connected with work, and even then this was rare. A phone call was the usual summons to drag him back from his spartan domesticity to the grubby world of crime.

  He discovered Colin Bird on the doorstep, wearing a broad grin and clutching a bottle of red wine in his hand.

  ‘Surprise!’ he chortled, thrusting the bottle towards Snow. ‘Avon calling.’

  For a moment Snow was lost for words, although he was able to deduce that Bird was not quite sober: the misty eyes, the slightly slurred speech and the dishevelled tie told him as much.

  Bird filled in the gap left by Snow’s lack of response. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

  It was the last thing Snow wanted to do, but he felt it was the safest under the circumstances. A tipsy colleague on his doorstep with a bottle of wine would not be an ideal scenario.

  ‘I thought you and I could have a little drink,’ Bird muttered as he followed Snow into the sitting room.

  ‘Have you driven here?’

  Bird giggled. ‘Still on duty, eh? Nah, got a taxi. Not stupid, old boy.’

  ‘What brings you here?’ As soon as the words left his mouth, Snow regretted uttering them.

  ‘A social call. Come to see my old buddy, well new buddy really. I thought a few drinks might cement the relationship. Might act as a little persuader … eh?’

  ‘Maybe you’ve already had your few drinks.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it.’ Suddenly Bird’s voice seemed more assured, less indistinct. The squiffy entrance had been faked. To cover embarrassment? To ensure entry? Snow could not be sure, but there was some nasty devious game being played here.

  ‘Now we’ll need two glasses and a corkscrew. Come on, Paul, hurry up. This is a damn fine wine and it’s eager to be sampled.’

  Without a word, Snow went into the kitchen to retrieve the glasses and corkscrew. He didn’t quite know what was going on here, although rather worriedly he had his suspicions. And he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit. He knew that he would have to be civil, or as civil as circumstances would allow, but he had to get rid of his visitor as soon as possible. No doubt a visit to Sherwood’s would raise its head again and he would have to ride that particular awkward roller.

  When Snow returned to the sitting room, he found Bird had taken off his jacket and tie and was perusing the bookcase. ‘A love of Dickens, I see.’ The voice was now normal with no trace of inebriation.

  ‘Amongst others.’

  ‘No Thomas Hardy, I see.’

  ‘Too fatalistic for my taste. You’ve got to give people a chance. We’re not puppets. Fate may play about with us, deal us blows, but we also have free will, otherwise we’d all be slaves of circumstance.’

  Bird chuckled. ‘Crikey, I didn’t expect to get a lecture on philosophy and literature when I came here tonight.’

  Snow smiled also. ‘I wonder what really did bring you here tonight?’

  ‘You mean apart from the taxi …’ Bird’s eyes twinkled unpleasantly. ‘Oh, I just fancied a drink and a chat. I thought you and I bonded in the Indian the other night and maybe we could take it a little further.’

  Snow inserted the corkscrew and began turning. ‘Bonded?’

  ‘You know … we have things in common.’

  ‘The job?’

  ‘The job, of course … and other things.’

  Snow did not respond.

  ‘I mean … we’re both bachelors with no ties. A bit lonely. I’m a bit lonely and I reckon you are. Wherever I see you you’re on your own. In Sherwood’s and the restaurant and the supermarket, shopping for one. Where’s the fun in that?’

  ‘It’s out of choice,’ Snow said, pouring the wine. ‘I like it. I am naturally a loner. Police work breeds you that way.’

  ‘Bollocks!’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No offence, but police work binds you together. You need that closeness, the companionship, the camaraderie to get you through the shit we have to deal with. The police is like an extended rather unruly family – unless you’re different.’

  Snow could see the danger zone on the horizon and was determined to change course. He handed Bird a glass of wine and took a sip from his own.

  ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘Yes, this is good,’ he said. ‘A Malbec.’

  ‘I know bugger all about wine. I took advice from the guy in the shop and no doubt he was bent on selling me the most expensive bottle on his shelves.’

  ‘Well, it’s excellent.’

  ‘Good, well get it down your neck.
’

  Snow took another sip.

  ‘So, how’s the case going? I’m following the progress in the press and colleagues keep passing on little titbits but I don’t know the latest.’

  ‘We’re getting there, I think. Don’t really care to talk shop, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You don’t really like to talk about a lot of things, eh, Paul?’

  Snow took a small sip of wine. ‘I’m a private person, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Private. Secretive. Deceptive.’

  Snow did not respond to this, but already his mind was working on how to get this fellow out of his house before this situation got out of hand.

  ‘Interesting, what you said about Thomas Hardy just now. You know, about free will. “We are not puppets or slaves of circumstance” and all that. I agree, we’re not. If we are grown up enough, we should be able make our destinies, make our own choices.’

  ‘Within the bounds of reason and safety.’

  ‘Safety? Surely, we cannot live without risks.’

  ‘Probably not, but we can act to minimise them.’

  Bird laughed. ‘You’re very good, Paul. Very good indeed. But you don’t fool me.’

  ‘Have I attempted to fool you?’

  Bird drained his glass and placed it at his feet. He leaned forward towards Snow and said in a croaky conspiratorial whisper: ‘Sherwood’s.’

  Again, Snow did not respond.

  ‘You weren’t there on a case, were you? Not checking out a suspect, following a line of enquiry? No. You were there as a punter.’

  ‘I was there having a drink.’

  ‘In a gay bar?’

  ‘I was there having a drink.’

  ‘So was I. Having a drink. In a gay bar. I go there quite often. I’m surprised I’ve not seen you there before.’

  ‘It was my first time. I just wanted a drink.’ It was a lie. It sounded like a lie. He knew that Bird would recognise it as such and the only benefit it would serve would be bringing the motive behind his visit out into the open.

  ‘Oh, come now, Paul, don’t fib to me. Isn’t it time we placed our cards on the table? You know what I’m getting at. You’re a bloody good detective, I know that, so don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m on about.’

  ‘I’m not pretending that, but I am deliberately leaving unspoken that which I don’t want to be spoken, to be discussed.’

  ‘Well, hard bloody lines, because I intend to speak about it. You’re with a friend here. One who knows. One who is.’ Colin Bird winked as he uttered these words.

  ‘I think it’s time for you to go now.’

  ‘Only if I get a goodnight kiss.’ Bird laughed heartily and then the humour left his face, the features darkening. ‘I’ve been stalking you, you know. It wasn’t an accident that I bumped into you in the supermarket this morning. I wanted a romantic tryst, you see.’

  Snow rose from his chair and walked to the door and opened it. ‘Leave, now, please.’

  Bird rose also and beamed at Snow. ‘Not such a gallant host then? OK, I will go for now. But I don’t intend to leave you alone, Mr Snow. I shall be like a dog with a bone.’ As he walked to the outer door, Bird raised his arm with the intention of running his fingers down Snow’s cheek but Paul stepped back to avoid contact.

  Bird accepted the rebuff with aplomb. ‘Next time, eh?’ he said, his grin increasing. ‘You’ll come round, I’m sure. Oh, and don’t worry your lovely little head about things: your secret is safe with me.’

  After he had gone, Snow wandered back into his sitting room in a kind of daze. He didn’t have to ask himself what that was all about, but he did wonder what the hell he was going to do. He opened the sideboard and extracted a bottle of single malt and poured himself a large measure. He put all thoughts on hold until he had taken a generous mouthful. It burnt his throat, warmed his innards and to some extent helped him relax – so much so that he poured himself another.

  It would seem, he pondered, as he sipped the whisky with enthusiasm, that he had been propositioned by Colin Bird. He allowed himself a twisted grin as the irony struck him: in the last two days a member of each sex had come on to him. ‘I didn’t know I was that popular … or versatile,’ he muttered to himself with a fey grin, the whisky already helping to slur his words.

  Paul Snow woke the following morning with a thick head and a sense of unease. Two paracetemol, a strong coffee and a fierce shower helped to clear his head somewhat, but the feelings of dark anxiety persisted. He had no idea what he was going to do about the Colin Bird situation, but what concerned him all the more was he didn’t know what Colin Bird was going to do about him. He remembered snatches of the conversation from the previous evening, particularly Bird’s assurance that ‘I don’t intend to leave you alone, Mr Snow.’ As those words echoed in his head, Paul’s stomach tightened and he felt queasy.

  By the time he reached the office, the habit of focusing on the day’s events had helped him shift his concerns regarding Colin Bird to the back of his mind, particularly when he saw a brown envelope on his desk marked ‘urgent’. It contained the two photographs taken from the caravan by Sean Quigley of forensics. There was a brief report indicating that there were fingerprints on the pictures but there was no match in the police records. Snow gazed at the photograph of the girl on her own. She must be a member of the Marsdale Choir, one of those killed in the crash. Somehow he knew that her identity was crucial.

  Half an hour later, Snow was parking his car outside Thomas Niven’s house in Marsden. It was not quite yet nine o’clock. He hoped the old boy would be up.

  He was not only up but was fully dressed and was already tackling the Daily Telegraph crossword. Radio Three was playing quietly in the background as Snow was led into the sitting room once more.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you again – or at least so soon,’ Niven said, slumping down in his chair. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘I just wondered if you could identify someone for me: the girl in this photograph.’ He withdrew the print from the envelope and passed it to Niven, who slipped his gold-rimmed glasses on the end of his nose and studied it.

  It did not take him long to respond. ‘Why, that’s Debbie Hirst. I was telling you about her last time you came. Well, not so much about her, but her mother. You know … she was the one who topped herself by jumping off the bridge on the M62. The grief really got to her. Terrible it was. Mind you, I felt sorry for her husband: to lose both girls, as it were, within a few months. I really don’t know how he coped.’

  FOURTEEN

  Paul Snow and Bob Fellows stood by the gate and stared at the semi-detached house. In many ways, it was no different from the other ordinary properties down this ordinary road. A little shabby, a little mundane, with a garden in need of attention. But there were differences. All the curtains were drawn, both upstairs and down; there were six milk bottles crowding on the front step; some post was seen sticking out of the letterbox; and there was rubbish and debris down the path which had no doubt blown there but had not been removed by the owner. It had all the appearances of being neglected, deserted, abandoned.

  As the two policeman made their way down the path, stepping over the detritus and dog dirt, a woman appeared at the front door of the neighbouring property. She was a stout woman in her fifties, wearing a tight grey skirt and an equally tight red sweater which emphasised her generous breasts. No doubt, thought Snow, she thought she looked glamorous rather than blousy.

  ‘You’ll get no reply there,’ she called. ‘He’s gone. Done a flit, I should imagine. Haven’t seen him in weeks.’

  ‘You are …?’ enquired Snow, stepping across the squishy lawn towards the woman. His rather authoritative and educated manner threw the woman for a moment and she stepped back into her hallway. Snow stood by the rickety wooden fence which divided the gardens and held up his ID. ‘Police,’ he said gently, not wanting to frighten the woman further. ‘Mrs? …’ he prompted again.

  ‘Fletcher.
Is there a problem?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ replied Snow easily. We’re just wanting to get in touch with Frank Hirst.’

  The woman shook her head vigorously, her straggly hair whipping across her forehead. ‘As I said, I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him for weeks. And not much before that. He went right into his shell after … you know his wife topped herself, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that was after poor Debbie, his daughter, was killed in a crash. A real tragedy.’

  Snow nodded.

  ‘It hit him real bad. Could hardly get a “good morning” out of him after. He looked ill, like he needed to see a doctor.’

  ‘How well did you know him?’

  Mrs Fletcher screwed up her face. ‘Not that much. Just a nodding acquaintance really. I mean we never were in and out of each other’s houses or anything like that. I thought she was a bit stuck up, if I’m honest. But we chatted about the weather and such and took in the occasional parcel.’

  ‘When you said that you thought Frank – Mr Hirst – looked like he should seek medical attention, what did you mean exactly?’

  Mrs Fletcher thought for a moment, her face twitching as though she was having difficulty marshalling her thoughts. ‘It’s … it’s just something I sensed really,’ she said eventually. ‘He gave off odd vibes, like. As I say I didn’t see much of him after his wife’s death but when I did, he looked like a robot, like that Frankenstein monster, walking all stiff and mechanical.’ She gave a brief demonstration. ‘If I spoke to him, said “Morning” or “How you doing?” it took him ages to reply and then I couldn’t quite catch what he was saying. It’s as though his brain wasn’t quite in gear. I think he was going a bit loopy. To be honest, in the end I avoided him.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea where he is now?’

  Mrs Fletcher shook her head once more, hair flying freely. ‘Certainly haven’t. I just noticed one day all the curtains drawn and that was it. We stopped the milkman delivering after a week. Has he been up to no good or something?’