Innocent Blood

by David Stuart Davies

  ‘We just want to ask him a few questions.’

  ‘Well, you won’t get any answers in there.’ She nodded towards the house and then as a thought struck her, she emitted a sharp cry. ‘Oh, my God, you don’t think he’s topped himself, do you? That he’s lying dead in there … bloody hell!’

  ‘No, we don’t think that. There’s no need to get alarmed.’

  ‘Says you,’ snapped Mrs Fletcher, hugging herself. ‘You don’t know for sure.’

  Snow decided to direct the conversation away from this particular avenue of thought.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a spare key to the house?’

  ‘No, I don’t! Why should I?’

  Snow shrugged. ‘Sometimes neighbours swap keys – to water plants, feed pets on holidays. Stuff like that.’

  ‘Not us round here. We like to keep our homes private.’

  ‘Well, thanks for your help.’ Snow smiled but did not turn to go, keeping his gaze on her until, unnerved by his stare, she retreated into the house, slamming the door behind her.

  Bob Fellows chuckled as his boss joined him by the front door.

  ‘Bit of a dragon, eh?’ he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

  ‘But an informative one. Well, looks like we’re going to have to indulge in a little breaking and entering. I think this is where your shoulder comes into its own, Sergeant. If you would be so kind as to apply it to the door with some force.’

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘Do you know any quicker way to gain entry?’

  ‘Maybe not. But why me? You’re the senior officer.’

  Snow smiled. ‘Exactly. That’s why I’m giving the orders. Beside, not to put too fine a point on it, you are a bit bulkier than me.’

  Bob Fellows grunted. ‘Thanks a million.’

  Snow stood aside to give his colleague room to make his assault.

  Taking a deep breath and moving a few paces back, Bob Fellows hurled himself at the door. It shook but did not give. ‘Ouch,’ he cried. ‘That hurt.’

  ‘You’ll get it next time,’ said Snow, failing to keep his face completely straight.

  Fellows tried again. This time there was the sound of splintering wood, but the door still remained in place. Now Bob tried a different approach. He lifted up his right foot and slammed his size elevens against the lock. This did the trick. The door shuddered, the noise reverberating in the air around them. And then with a sharp crack the door sprang wide open.

  Snow patted his sergeant on the back. ‘Good man. No one is going to throw sand in your face.’

  Bob Fellows rolled his eyes but smiled.

  The two men entered the house and immediately their demeanour changed. There was a decided atmosphere which assailed them as soon as they made their way down the hall. The place was cold and there was a faint smell of damp in the air, but it was more than this that contributed to the unpleasantness of the environment. It was also the eerie silence and strange sense of sadness which, although intangible, was experienced by both men. They both shivered involuntarily as they entered the sitting room.

  ‘Crikey,’ exclaimed Fellows, gazing around him, ‘it looks like he was camping out in his own front room.’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Snow, surveying the room. There was a little oil stove by the fireplace, around the base of which was a collection of empty cans, mainly soup and baked beans. Dirty plates containing scraps of congealed food and discarded cutlery were scattered around the room, while a sleeping bag lay abandoned on the giant sofa and two full ashtrays were balanced on tiled fender.

  ‘It’s as though he couldn’t bear to use the rest of the house,’ observed Snow.

  ‘Too many memories.’

  ‘Yes. Understandable in one sense, but an extreme reaction nonetheless.’

  ‘Well, if he’s the guy we’re after, these are the least of his extreme reactions.’

  Snow nodded solemnly.

  ‘What do you really think it’s all about, sir?’

  ‘I can only surmise but the evidence, which is growing by the day,’ he gestured to the shambolic contents of the room, ‘suggests that the death of both his daughter and his wife caused Frank Hirst to lose his marbles. In his newly acquired twisted logic, he blames all his ills on the coach crash. He lost his daughter through that and then indirectly his wife. She couldn’t face up to life without her precious kid, so she commits suicide. So he has a grudge. A big, all-consuming grudge.’

  ‘Against whom? I mean the logical target would be the driver of the coach. He caused the crash – or that’s how it seems, reading between the lines. But he’s dead. Who’s left to blame?’

  Snow shrugged. ‘In an unbalanced mind, just about anyone. The chap at the garage who filled the van up with petrol; the people who organised the choir competition in the first place. But he targets … the survivors.’

  ‘What on earth can he blame them for?’

  Snow laid a friendly hand on Bob’s shoulder. ‘For surviving. For escaping the fate that was meted out to his beloved daughter and then to his wife.’

  ‘Really?’ The sergeant raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘That’s crazy.’

  ‘Well, that’s your theory about murderers, isn’t it? No logic involved.’

  ‘Well, yes …’

  ‘But actually, I can see some logic in this plan, if I’m right about the motive, that is. Hirst feels mightily aggrieved. His whole world has collapsed in on him. Who can he blame? Who can he hurt as a kind of revenge? The driver of the coach is dead, so it has to be someone else. Someone to suffer like he has and his two loved ones who have lost their life. And he chooses those that had the luck, the temerity, to survive. Why should they go on living when …?’

  ‘My God! That’s awful. It’s awful because … well, it is crazy but logical as well. Bloody crazy logic, like.’

  ‘We’ll soon know for certain, Bob. We’re closing in on him now. Let’s take a gander upstairs.’

  A thin layer of dust covered everything on the upper floor. Everything was neat and tidy. The beds were made, the towels were carefully folded in the bathroom and clothes hung neatly in the wardrobes. The exception was the little girl’s room which was untidy and, apart from the dust, looked as though she had just left it. The covers of the bed were rumpled and some magazines lay on the floor; an LP was on the record player ready to be played. It was a bit like a museum in honour of his daughter, thought Snow.

  ‘It’s as though he hasn’t actually been up here for ages,’ observed Bob as they moved into the main bedroom.

  ‘Since the death of his wife, no doubt. We saw that he had taken to sleeping in the lounge. He obviously neglected this upper storey because it was part of his past. It was filled with too many ghosts. We’d better get the SOCO boys to give this a thorough going over. In the meantime, we need to get a photograph of our Mr Hirst circulated in the press and on the TV. Someone will know where he is. The fellow can’t be invisible. Somewhere he is hiding out, planning his next move.’

  ‘He’s bound to be getting desperate now, especially as we’ve got the two girls under surveillance.’

  ‘Too true. That’s what worries me. When a cunning violent murderer becomes desperate he takes terrible risks and becomes even more unpredictable.’

  FIFTEEN

  That night Colin Bird went to Sherwood’s again. He was never nervous about his visits. He possessed an arrogance that allowed him to feel protected. If any shit were to hit the fan, he would certainly walk away unscathed. Like Snow, he hid his homosexuality because he wanted to keep his job but in all other respects he was careless. Deliberately so. Normally, when he came to the club, he was on the prowl, ready to pick up someone for the night. He enjoyed sex and he was not too fussy with whom he indulged. Not now, anyway. There had been lots of one-night stands but only one fairly serious affair which had ended unhappily when his partner, Brian, a married man, had committed suicide. For a while, following this tragic event, Bird’s world went into freefall. He
started drinking and taking up the promiscuous lifestyle. Brian’s death had scarred him for life. Never a sentimental nor even a passionate man, he had been surprised how devastated he had been at the loss of Brian. He hadn’t realised at the time, not until it was too late, that it had been love: an emotion that had been alien to him. It had scarred him and, although he did not realise it, had unbalanced him also.

  And here he was again, feeling something akin to love once more. He had been in the company of Paul Snow just a few hours, but he knew that he was the man for him. It certainly helped that he not only looked a little like Brian but also had that same gentle sense of reserve and enticing smile, when he could be coaxed into showing it. The fact that he was playing hard to get increased his attraction.

  Colin had not come to Sherwood’s tonight for a pick-up. He just wanted to be with his own kind, so that he could brood. Think about Paul Snow. Think how he could win him over. Coax the lovely bastard out of his shell. Well, it wasn’t so much a shell as a straitjacket – as he’d told him. They could be good together, mused Bird, as he sipped his gin and tonic, if only Paul would be true to his feelings. The more he drank, the more the fire of determination grew within him. He was not going to be fobbed off. He had lost Brian but he was not going to lose Paul. He would break the fellow down or else he would break the fellow. Whatever he had to do, he would do it to bring about what he wanted. In the mind of this lonely and somewhat disturbed man, the obsession, which only a few days previously had been but a seed, flourished with grotesque growth.

  It was while he was on his fourth gin and tonic that a middle-aged man in a double-breasted suit, wearing some kind of club tie, slipped into the chair beside him.

  ‘Hello, there, chummy,’ he said, his hand slithering over the table to touch Colin’s. ‘Been watching you for a while. Thought you needed cheering up. I reckon I might be the fellow to do it.’

  Colin gazed for some moments at the stranger before responding. When he did, he spat the words out with vehemence: ‘Piss off, you queer bastard,’ he said.

  Eva Hodge poured herself another generous measure of sherry – up to the brim – and lit up a cigarette. This, along with the telly, was her usual evening’s entertainment. Since her husband had done a bunk with that belly dancer, her life had been dedicated to her little boarding house, business and fags and a few sherries in the evening. As she confided to her neighbour Andrea, actually she got more bodily sensation from a couple of ciggies and several swigs from the cream sherry bottle than she ever did from her ex. Of course, she knew there were a few things missing from her life, but she was happy that one of them was Dennis.

  She laid back on the couch and split open a pack of Maltesers. Why not? She knew she had a fat stomach and a saggy bum, but what the hell. At fifty-five the days of trying to lure a bloke to her bed were well over. At her age there were more important appetites. She intended to treat herself, indulge herself until she keeled over in the drinks aisle at the supermarket. The rather dreary drama on TV came to a close as she crunched her last Malteser. Time for bed, she thought. I’ll just watch the late local news and then beddy byes. With some difficulty she pulled herself up in readiness for padding off to her bedroom. The news was as dreary as the drama until something appeared on screen which made her heart jump and her stomach retch. Her chubby fingers reached for the remote control to increase the volume.

  There on her television was the face of her new lodger. The version that stared out at her from the screen was clean-shaven and well groomed, the eyes bright with the mouth bearing a natural smile. He was a far cry from the shifty bearded scruff she had just let her spare room to but nevertheless it was the same man. She was sure of it. She only caught the details about the police wanting to interview him. The newsreader quickly moved on to some local football results.

  Eva Hodge froze for a moment, her vision blurring and the sound of the television fading to a faint mumble.

  ‘… the police wanting to interview him …’ Why? What had he done? Was he a rapist? A murderer? Whatever, he was a bloody wrong ’un and he was staying in her house. Christ almighty! At this thought she began to gag and felt her bladder loosen. My God, what was she to do? He might come in at any time and do her in. In desperation she pulled herself to her feet and staggered to the door, the intake of sherry making the room shimmer somewhat. She couldn’t lock herself in because there was no lock on the door to her sitting room. She looked around in befuddled desperation. Her eyes lit upon the armchair. With great effort Eva swung the chair round and rammed it up against the door. In reality she knew that it wouldn’t keep a determined brutish rapist out but it gave her a little comfort.

  The fear she felt building up inside her helped to clear her mind and she grabbed the phone. She had to ring the police. Words came awkwardly at first: her mouth was dry and the sherry was still slurring her speech. She hoped to God that the coppers didn’t think this was a hoax call or just some drunk off her head.

  ‘That man on the telly that the police want,’ she said, desperately trying to articulate each word. ‘He’s here. In my house. I saw his picture on the telly. He’s … got a beard now but it’s him. I know it’s him. He’s here in my house. He could kill me. You’ve got to come and help. Please.’

  The voice at the other end asked for details, including Eva’s address.

  ‘Keep calm,’ the voice said. ‘Someone will be with you shortly.’

  ‘Thank God.’ Eva replaced the receiver and slumped back on the sofa, tears misting her eyes. She caught sight of the sherry bottle and her hand instinctively reached out for it, but as her fingers clasped the cold glass of the neck, she stopped. Better not, she thought. I need to stay sober. Warily she glanced over to the door and its rather insubstantial barrier, while she hugged herself tightly.

  Snow was already in bed when he received the call, but so practised and disciplined was he in matters of getting himself dressed and out of the house at speed that he was turning the ignition of his car ready to set off within five minutes of replacing the receiver.

  Eva Hodge’s house was in Berry Rise, the Farwell area of Huddersfield, one of the shabbier locales in the town. It had quite a high crime rate, drugs and prostitution mainly, but it had been the scene of a couple of rather nasty knife attacks, gang related, in the last couple of years. It didn’t take Snow long to locate Berry Rise. There was already a police car with a flashing light parked outside. Apparently the mainstream plods had never heard of the softly, softly catchee monkee approach. Just dive in there with as much illumination and noise as possible, announce your presence to all and sundry, including the guy you are attempting to apprehend. One sight of the flashing blue light and he would have high-tailed for the hills.

  There was a burly copper on the door. Paul was about to retrieve his ID but the constable recognised him.

  ‘Evening, sir.’

  Snow nodded and entered the property. He made a left and turned into the main room, where two uniformed officers, one male and female, were talking to a blousy middle-aged woman who was clasping a small tumbler containing a brown fluid. Brandy, whisky or maybe sherry, Snow guessed. She looked distressed, flushed and a little drunk.

  ‘DI Snow,’ Paul announced himself, more to the officers, than to the woman.

  ‘DS Scott, sir, and this is DS Perkins.’

  ‘So, what is the situation?’

  ‘The man’s not here. His room is empty.’

  ‘The man’s not here, and he’s unlikely to return, seeing that there’s a police car with flashing lights outside,’ observed Snow, coldly.

  ‘Here, you, don’t get narky with these two,’ growled Eva Hodge, shuffling herself forward on the sofa, her bleary eyes flashing with annoyance. ‘They’ve saved my bacon. I don’t want that scumbag to come back. I don’t want him anywhere near this place. I could have been murdered in my bed if these two hadn’t turned up to rescue me.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Snow diplomatically. It would be dangero
us to rub the old soak up the wrong way. He could see that alcohol was already making her irrational. He didn’t want to exacerbate her condition by aggravating her. ‘You were very wise to give us a call. You saw the picture on the television news, I gather.’

  Eva Hodge nodded. ‘Gave me the fright of my life. Staring out at me. Like a bloody bogey man. I should have trusted my instincts and turned the bastard away. I felt he was a wrong ’un in me waters.’

  ‘How long has he been your … paying guest?’

  ‘Only just a few days. I usually have such smart gentlemen. He was rather rough looking, but he was quiet and paid me up front. Mind you, if I’d known … What’s the bastard done?’

  ‘We just need to talk to him, to help us with our enquiries.’

  ‘Enquiries about what?’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  Eva Hodge screwed up her face. ‘Can’t rightly say. As I say, he’s very quiet. I’ll give him that. Hardly know he’s around. This morning. I think. Yes … that’s right. I caught sight of him as he left.’

  ‘Does he have a car – or a van?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s nothing parked outside.’

  ‘What name did he give you?’

  ‘Black, Jim Black. But that’s not his real name, is it?’

  ‘Would you mind showing us his room?’

  With some effort, Eva Hodge raised herself from the sofa and made her way to the sideboard. Opening a drawer, she extracted a bunch of keys.

  ‘This way,’ she said, beckoning to Snow.

  ‘You two wait here,’ he told the two officers softly and followed the woman out of the door.

  The room in which Eva Hodge’s ‘paying guest’ had stayed was basic in the extreme. A naked sixty-watt bulb illuminated the contents in harsh relief. There was a bed, a cheap wardrobe and chest of drawers, and a bedside cabinet topped by a small lamp. Snow dropped down on the floor and checked under the bed. There was a prodigious amount of grey fluff but nothing else. A small holdall dumped by the bed attracted his attention, but on examination it only contained a couple of shirts, some socks and two pairs of underpants. There was nothing else in the room. The drawers and wardrobe were empty. Frank Hirst travelled extremely light, leaving no significant mark. He was a clever and cautious man.