Innocent Blood

by David Stuart Davies

Snow nodded sternly. He was unsure in his own mind whether he wanted this young copper to be right or wrong. If the girl was in the van, the chances are that she was already dead.

  ‘For the moment, we must leave the matter in Hargreaves’ hands while we follow this up. We don’t want any patrol car getting in on the act. If he sees a police vehicle on his tail, who knows what crazy thing he’ll do.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Fellows, happy to let his boss make decisions in this volatile situation.

  Snatching up the intercom, Snow made contact with Hargreaves.

  ‘DI Snow here. We’re coming after you. Please detail your current location.’

  ‘Hello, sir,’ came the crackly response. Even through the tiny speaker Snow could gauge the tension in his policeman’s voice. ‘I’m just two cars behind the suspect, travelling up New Hey Road. He’s taking it fairly steady and luckily for me the traffic is still rather heavy from the morning rush. We’re about two minutes from Outlane village.’

  ‘Good man. Make sure you hold him in sight and keep us in touch with his movements. We must not lose him at any cost.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Snow switched off the intercom. ‘Outlane,’ he muttered. ‘Looks like he might be headed out on to the moors.’

  ‘To dispose of the body.’

  Snow narrowed his eyes, and stared resolutely at the road ahead without replying.

  Hirst passed through the small village of Outlane, and soon undulating fields were flowing past on either side of him. The road ribboned off in a fairly straight fashion up towards the moors and the Lancashire border. Those moors. That bleak terrain forever associated with Myra Hindley and Ian Brady, the murderers who had buried their young victims up there in unmarked graves. No doubt he would be compared to them. Evil child killers. But he was not like them. They were mad murderers who killed for kicks, for pure pleasure. There was no purpose, no reason behind their killings. He wasn’t mad and he wasn’t evil. He had a real motive for doing what he was doing. He was an angel of justice, balancing those scales that God had tipped the wrong way. He derived no enjoyment from his actions, a dark satisfaction perhaps, because he was performing a duty to his wife and his lovely daughter. He was righting a major wrong. When all this was over, he would join them. If at all possible, he would not wait to be captured. Once he had completed his task, he would have nothing to live for. His death would be the fitting final chapter in this bleak story.

  As the road rose towards the dim horizon, as though waiting to be enfolded by the barren moors, the sky seemed to grow darker and the clouds loured above the bleak countryside as though waiting in misty ambush. But Hirst was not headed for the moors. He had another destination in mind.

  ‘He’s turned left off the main road, sir. I think he’s making for Scammonden Dam reservoir.’

  ‘Are there any other vehicles on the road with you apart from Hirst’s van?’ asked Snow.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, for God’s sake keep him in view but stay well back. He must not twig that you’re following him.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘We’re not far behind you now. Just watch and wait.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  Hirst manoeuvred the van at moderate speed along the narrow twisting roads which led towards the great man-made stretch of water that was the Scammonden Dam. His mind was so concentrated on his driving and the act he intended to commit when he reached his destination, the visitor’s car park which was perched high above the dam, that he failed to spot the black Corsa some two hundred yards behind him.

  Hirst pulled into the car park area. There was just one other vehicle parked at the far end. There was no sign of the driver. Hirst assumed that he was a walker and was somewhere along the water’s edge, making a circular tour of the dam. He knew this was a popular pursuit for casual walkers.

  He got out of the van and walked all the way around it, checking there was no one else in the vicinity. When he was convinced he was alone in this windswept spot, he opened the back doors, clambered inside and pulled them to again. The sports bag lay there in the shadows. Carefully he pulled down the zip and folded back the sides of the bag to expose the body within.

  The girl moved slightly, the rush of cool air assailing her senses. As he knelt down beside her, she opened her eyes. They were glazed and sleepy and not really seeing clearly. All she could make out was a dark shape gently shifting by her side.

  Her lips parted slightly and she spoke, her voice emerging like an elongated purr.

  ‘Daddy,’ she said. And then repeated it. ‘Daddy.’

  The word shocked and horrified Hirst. His body grew rigid and his heart throbbed with anguish. She had thought that he was … he was … My God, and she sounded just like …

  Suddenly with an acid ice-cold ferocity, the veils were lifted from his twisted, corrupted mind. It came like a lightning bolt to his brain, waking, shaking him from his mad dream. That little girl’s voice calling for her daddy. His body vibrated with shock and emotion. It was as though he was suddenly fully aware of what he had done and what he was about to do, with a searing, heart-wrenching clarity. This little, sleepy creature before him was the same age as his daughter, could be his daughter, with all her future ahead of her and he was about to kill her. To take her life. And what for?

  He clutched his chest in agony as the realisation of this horror coursed through his body. He sank to his knees, emitting a strangled moan.

  The girl shifted again, the eyelids fluttering and her little tongue emerging to moisten her lips.

  And that word came once more like a dagger in his breast: ‘Daddy.’

  For a moment time seemed to stand still. The world stopped and silence thudded in his ears. But that word, uttered by the soft, drowsy voice, lingered in the air, burrowing like some malignant worm in his ear: ‘Daddy.’

  He opened his mouth to speak, to utter something, he knew not what, but no sound came. He had no idea what to do now. He couldn’t kill the girl. Not now. How could he? Not now that he had seen, had realised how wrong, how futile, how evil he had been. How could he take this girl away from her … her daddy? He ran his hand over his face, the fingers pinching his features, hard enough to cause him pain. If only this could be some horrible dream.

  And then the world returned; the silence faded and he heard a noise behind him. The doors of the van swung open with a violent clang, light flooded in and a dark figure sprang forward. Before he could react in any way, Hirst felt an arm around his neck and a gruff voice muttered close to his ear, ‘Got you, you bastard.’

  For a brief moment, his body relaxed as he quickly took in the situation and accepted it. He didn’t know how this had happened but he knew he was being apprehended. Remarkably, for a moment this brought him a frisson of relief. He no longer had to make decisions about the girl. He could now succumb to the whims of fate. But as the hold on his neck grew tighter, the sense of self-preservation overwhelmed these insubstantial, fleeting feelings. The innate instinct for survival rose within him, and with a ferocity he did not know he possessed, he rose up and with a roar he thrust his body backwards, ramming his assailant against the wall of the van.

  With a cry of pain, PC Hargreaves slumped to the floor. He was dazed and winded but still conscious. But not for long.

  Hirst, now acting on a basic animal instinct, lashed out with his fists, beating hard against Hargreaves’ face, sending the policeman’s head ricocheting backwards, crashing against the metal wall, rendering him unconscious immediately.

  With a simian growl, Hirst leapt out of the back of the van and raced towards the path that led down towards the dam.

  TWENTY

  He entered the house with ease. Breaking and entering gently was one of the tricks of his trade. He was tempted to give the place a thorough search, but that was not the purpose of his visit and besides he knew that the occupant was a careful enough fellow not to leave anything that might incriminate him within easy rea
ch. If there was anything at all – and that was doubtful, knowing this man – it would be hidden where no one could find it.

  But, as he had already asserted to himself, this was not why he was making this particular house call. He wanted to spook the bastard. This was only the beginning. He smiled at the prospect. That smile was the only thing about his demeanour that gave any hint to his growing mental instability.

  Now, should he put the two together or … separately? He decided on separately. In placing the items in different rooms he would provide two surprises or, preferably, two shocks. Shocks would be better. His aim was to produce gasps and cold sweats, not merely raised eyebrows. He giggled at this notion and then performed his tasks with speed.

  Within minutes, he had closed the door and was walking towards his car, a very large self-satisfied grin plastered on his face.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Snow and Fellows were just pulling into the little car park overlooking Scammonden Dam when they saw Frank Hirst leap out of the grey Ford van and head off into the undergrowth.

  ‘You see to the girl – if she’s in there. I’ll get after Hirst,’ snapped Snow, quickly assessing the situation. He jumped out the car and hared off in the direction Hirst had taken.

  As he reached the pathway which snaked its way through the trees down to the water’s edge, Snow spotted Hirst about a hundred yards ahead of him, making speedy progress. Summoning an extra burst of speed, Snow followed. It was eerily quiet around the dam. There was no rustle of wind in the trees or the sound of birds, just the faint swish of two pairs of feet racing through the dry grass.

  ‘Stop, police!’ cried Snow loudly, breaking that silence, knowing that this was a futile exclamation, but he felt obliged to use it. At least he was warning the bastard that the authorities were on his tail.

  His voice trailed over the dead air and for a brief moment his cry caused Hirst to pause and turn round. On seeing Snow, he resumed his flight.

  Within minutes both men had reached the pathway that circumnavigated the giant dam, but the chase continued. Snow was gaining ground but then suddenly Hirst left the path and made his way out on to a promontory which stuck out like a rocky finger into the choppy waters. Reaching the end of it, without a moment’s hesitation, Hirst flung himself into the water.

  ‘What the hell?’ muttered Snow in disbelief. ‘What is the man up to?’ The answer came to him immediately. ‘He’s bloody well going to try and drown himself. Well, he bloody well isn’t. That’s too easy a way out for him.’

  With gritted teeth Snow followed suit. He dashed along the rocks and plunged into the murky water. He gave an involuntary gasp as his body reacted to the shock of the fierce cold that enveloped his body. It was as though all the oxygen was being forcibly pumped from his lungs. He gulped for air while desperately scanning the surface for any signs of Hirst. He spotted him about fifteen yards to his left. With grim determination he struck out towards his quarry, but as he drew nearer, he saw the man disappear beneath the chill grey waters. This confirmed to Snow that he was indeed intending to drown himself. That’s if he didn’t die of hypothermia first.

  Snow was a fair swimmer and soon reached the spot where Hirst had vanished, realising that now he would have to dive down beneath the rippling surface after him. He knew that he couldn’t think too much about this procedure or else he would lose the impetus, the courage to do it. Already his body was shaking with cold and his limbs felt stiff and unresponsive. Taking a deep breath, he sank down under the waves. It was far gloomier than he expected: a wall of shifting grey water met his eyes, thick as a pea-souper fog and just as impenetrable. He swam a few feet, peering desperately into the darkness without success, and then surfaced once more, gasping and gulping, partially to fill his lungs with air and partially as a reaction to the Arctic cold that was slowly conquering his body. As he broke the surface, so did Frank Hirst, some ten feet away. The man was also spluttering and coughing, his arms flailing wildly in a frantic fashion. It was obvious to Snow that this heartless killer was finding it far more difficult to do away with himself than he had to take the lives of young girls.

  As he began to swim towards this thrashing shape in the water, a dark thought entered his mind. Wouldn’t it be a lot simpler for all concerned if he just drowned the bugger himself? Held his head under the water while reciting the names of the young victims whose lives he had taken, while his squirming body twisted and turned in the icy depths. Hold him down until the struggles grew less and the bloated body grew limp. That would be simpler and less costly to a society that would have to cough up the funds for the trial and the long prison sentence Hirst would eventually receive. His hurt to society would not be over with his capture.

  As he grabbed Hirst by the shoulders, it was very tempting just to thrust him downwards until his head dipped beneath the water and keep it there. But it was a temptation that Snow could resist. He was not that kind of man. Although he didn’t believe in God, he was not about to assume the role himself. His job, his duty, was to bring this man in and see that he was charged for the crimes he had committed. That’s where his responsibility ended, morally and professionally. To do more would be wrong.

  At first Hirst struggled to pull himself free as Snow began to tug him towards the shore, but very quickly he gave in to the inevitable. He was exhausted physically and mentally. The fight had gone out of him and he simply surrendered to events.

  Eventually, with much effort, Snow was able to haul his weighty charge up on to the rocky shore. By now Hirst was only just conscious. He had swallowed great amounts of water and the dramatic events of the last ten minutes had gradually caused his brain to shut down.

  Snow was also cold and exhausted but his steely nature prevented him from succumbing to the overwhelming sense of fatigue that he felt. He had a job to do. He slapped Hirst around the face to rouse him. He was damned if he was going to carry this bastard back up to the car park.

  When the eyes flickered open and focused vaguely on him, the policeman announced in a hoarse voice that he was arresting him for murder. Like an automaton, he recited the standard rhetoric, before dragging Hirst to his feet and hauling him along the shoreline towards the pathway which led to the car park at the top.

  Meanwhile, Bob Fellows had been ministering to the girl. He had retrieved a fruit drink from the glove compartment of his car and allowed her to sip from it gently. She was very groggy but apart from that she appeared to be unharmed. After a few sips, she relaxed again and slipped back into sleep. Then Fellows turned his attention to PC Hargreaves who still lay sprawled on the floor of the van. Bob quickly ascertained that he had not been shot and was just concussed. There was a nasty bump on the back of his head and a small cut on the scalp. The big lad would live.

  Satisfied that both his patients were safe for the time being without his presence, Bob ventured to the edge of the car park, wondering what had happened to his boss and if he needed his help. Peering down towards the dam, he glimpsed Snow through the trees, dragging Frank Hirst up the pathway. They resembled two drowned rats. Fellows made his way down towards them.

  ‘Are you OK, sir?’

  ‘I will be when I can dry off. Get the cuffs on this fellow. I’ve read him his rights. How is the girl?’

  ‘She’s alive. She’s just been drugged. Chloroform, I think. But she’ll be OK.’

  ‘Thank heavens.’

  ‘I’ve rung for an ambulance,’ Fellows added as he clamped the handcuffs over Hirst’s wrists. He did not react in any way, his head lolling on his chest, eyes staring at the ground.

  ‘Let’s get him to headquarters. I’ll be a lot happier when he’s stowed away in a cell,’ said Snow.

  ‘Sure thing, sir. Well done. What a relief it’s all over, eh?’

  Snow, very damp and exhausted, gave a brief nod. For some reason he did not feel any relief or sense of closure.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Two hours later, Snow was sitting in his office with his third cup of co
ffee, hunched up in his chair, still feeling the chill of the icy waters. He’d borrowed an old police sergeant’s uniform while his suit and shirt had been taken out to be dry cleaned.

  Elizabeth Saunders’ parents had been informed of the situation and they were with their daughter at the hospital. Apparently, apart from some drowsiness still remaining as the after-effect of the chloroform, she was fine and would be well enough to go home within a few hours. She was a tough little girl and did not seem too alarmed by her ordeal. PC Hargreaves had also recovered consciousness but was still suffering from concussion and was being kept in overnight for observation.

  ‘I really think you should go home, sir. Have a hot toddy and get to bed. You’ve had a serious soaking. You don’t want to catch your death of cold, do you?’

  Snow laughed at his sergeant. ‘I’ve never noticed these mother hen tendencies in you before, Bob,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come home with me and tuck me up.’

  ‘I think I’ll draw the line there.’

  ‘I’m fine. Still a bit damp behind the ears but I’ll feel a lot better once I’m back in my own my suit. I feel like a pantomime Mr Plod in this baggy outfit. However, I must admit I don’t feel up to filling in the paperwork just now.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. The interview with Hirst and his solicitor is in the morning, is that right?’

  Snow nodded. ‘Yeah. He had no objection to waiting. In fact, he has been docile and virtually mute since I dragged him out of the water.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  Snow twisted his features. ‘I reckon there’s more to it than that.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, sometimes you look for deeper meanings when there aren’t any. This is a simple case of loony killer goes on the rampage and then gets caught.’

  ‘Simple case?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Whatever,’ he said diplomatically. It was you, Bob, he thought, who often didn’t look deep enough into matters. Nothing is ever as simple as it appears on the surface. ‘However,’ he added, ‘I am ducking out of the formalities at this juncture. I’ve handed over proceedings to DI Osborne. He’ll be with you in the interview room tomorrow.’