To Katie, as always, with love.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
CONTENTS
Title
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Part Two
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Part Three
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
About the Author
Copyright
PROLOGUE
1970
They waited.
Despite their nervousness and apprehension, they were very patient in those days. Simply because they could afford to wait. Time, eternity, the future and youth were all on their side. For them the whole unfolding nature of life was just beginning. There was no rush; such bright boys could pace themselves. The arrogance of salad days quelled all other dark concerns. Future dangers were unthought of. Here they were: ready for the big adventure. They had made the decision. It was irrevocable. Although there was no going back, equally they were in no hurry. It had to be done properly and so they were content to take their time until everything slotted neatly into place. There must be no mistakes.
It had been agreed between them that once the lucky prize winner had been chosen, the recipient of their beneficence, as Laurence referred to him, they would stick to that decision, no matter what obstacles were thrown in their way. That was part of the appeal, the thrill of the venture. After all, it wouldn’t be as much fun if it all went too easily. There had to be some difficulty, some danger to spice things up.
After all, fear was part of the drug.
And this was the night.
The first test.
One for the memory bank.
It was Laurence, of course, who had picked out the old guy and the other two had readily agreed that he seemed an ideal candidate. He looked ragged and desperate, hostel based no doubt, and with no real function in the world. A piece of shit on the heel of society. Please feel sorry for me, his grubby demeanour seemed to say to them. I fucked up my life and I just exist from day to day so I need your sympathy and generosity. Please give me money to enable me to get drunk, piss my pants, sleep in a stinking room with a lot of other dead beats and then face another day of degradation and begging. Please feel sorry for me.
There was no debate. He was better off dead.
And so they waited, the three of them, in that dingy, foul smelling boozer with the noisy one-armed bandit, crap music, grim lighting, sticky carpet and with what they regarded as the greatest collection of low life ever seen under one roof. Alex did make a comment about it being a good job P.T. Barnum wasn’t still around or he’d sign up the whole lot for a freak show attraction under his big top. These solitary creatures were glimpsed through eddies of cigarette smoke which swirled lazily about the place like swathes of grey ectoplasm, further heightening the unreality of the occasion.
Laurence was aware that they would have looked odd themselves in such an establishment if they’d gone as themselves. They would have stuck out like three vicars in a brothel. A trio of young, clean and intelligent faces would have really attracted the attention of the degenerate clientele. However, on Laurence’s instructions they had carefully dressed down for the occasion – way down, almost into the realms of fancy dress – and altered their natural appearance with greasy hair, a few fake tattoos and grimy stubble. Laurence, who had a talent for this kind of thing, was almost unrecognisable from his usual debonair and arrogant self. Their theatrical efforts had paid off for they blended in perfectly with the surroundings and no one took any notice of the three scruffy lads huddled in the darkest corner of the bar. They had become invisible men.
The other punters sat, their noses stuck in a glass, considering the ashes of their lives and only acknowledging another human being when they grunted at the barman asking for another drink.
Their chosen prize winner, whom Laurence had christened Alpha Beta, sat at the end of the bar, perched precariously on a rickety stool, nursing a pint of cheap dark beer. Apart from the moments when he took large gulps from the glass, his throat pulsating in a strange reptilian fashion, he could have been a waxwork doll. Surreptitiously they studied this creature whose face was ingrained with the grime of the street, the nose raddled and bulbous with pores like small moist volcanic craters and eyes that were rheumy, lifeless and bleak. He could have been aged anywhere between forty and seventy.
One thing was for sure: he wasn’t going to get much older.
God knows what he had been in some other life, thought Russell. He’d been a son, probably a husband, maybe a father and most likely an employee at some time. What had happened? What had he done or what had been done to him to cause the humanity to seep away? How had he become detached, amputated from mainstream society? What tragedy or what farce had brought him to the gutter? He almost felt sorry for the bastard. Well, he thought, his suffering was almost over.
‘You know he’s going to stay here until chucking out time.’ Russell observed quietly. ‘It might be best if we wait for him outside.’
Laurence shook his head. ‘That will look far too suspicious: a group of youths hanging about outside a pub late at night. We don’t want to have some diligent copper pulling up in his police car to ask us what we’re doing. No. We wait in here.’
They had drawn lots to see who was to be in charge of this particular operation and, to the relief of Russell and Alex, Laurence had won and so they were obliged to obey any decision he made. That was part of the rules.
And so they continued to wait. They waited through another two pints that Alpha Beta downed sporadically. It was nearing closing time and the clientele began to leave. Like rusty automatons, they shuffled towards the door individually, dragging their weary limbs out into the winter cold, solitary grey figures, Billy no mates, off to some grim and greasy bed somewhere. Life on the planet Scumball.
Eventually, Alpha Beta slipped off his stool and gave the barman a vague, drunken smile and headed for the door. He swaggered past their table without a glance in their direction, his eyes hooded with inebriation. As he passed through the door, the three of them exchanged nods. This was it.
It was time.
Russell grinned nervously. Fear and excitement throbbed through his body and he suddenly discovered that his hands were clammy and beads of sweat were trickling down his brow. But strangely he found that it was a thoroughly pleasurable sensation, acknowledging possibly for the first time that this was a game no more. This was the real thing.
He glanced across at the other two. Alex seemed to be sharing similar emotions: eager but anxious with a touch of suppressed fear in his fixed expression. Laurence was as cool as ever, his face almost blank apart from a hint
of excitement in that feral grin that hovered briefly on his thin, pale lips.
They waited exactly one minute before following their prize winner out into the dark. He hadn’t gone far. He was less than thirty yards ahead of them, a shambling silhouette, shuffling aimlessly along the pavement occasionally muttering to himself, his breath escaping in small white clouds into the sharp air. Without a word, they followed him casually at a safe distance.
It was late November and a patina of frost was in the process of icing the pavement. In the distance, to their left, they could see the vague shapes of the town’s Christmas decorations: the garish coloured lights, the large illuminated Santas and grinning snowmen. However, the council’s Christmas cheer didn’t stretch to this benighted part of the town. This was no-man’s land, ignored and rejected by the local burghers. No fairy lights here – only the harsh yellow glare of sodium lamps.
As mere foot soldiers, Russell and Alex waited obediently for Laurence’s command. He was aware that although the street was quiet with no pedestrians in view, the road was too well lit, too busy with traffic for it to be safe to take action now. They would have to wait until the sad old bastard turned into a quieter thoroughfare, which thankfully he did after about ten minutes of shuffling.
Patiently the three youths followed Alpha Beta as he tottered down a quiet, dingy street where conveniently several of the street lamps were out of order. With suppressed excitement they pulled on their gloves and exchanged knowing glances.
‘Get ready,’ said Laurence with a tight grin, his eyes glittering eerily in the darkness.
Alpha Beta was now passing a small patch of waste ground which had an electricity substation on it.
‘Perfect,’ said Laurence. ‘All systems go. Game on.’
Extracting the hammer from the inside of his parka jacket he jogged ahead of the other two and caught up with their prize winner.
‘Excuse me, sir. Sorry to bother you, but have you got a light?’
Alpha Beta, his brain clouded with alcohol, turned slowly and awkwardly to respond to this request.
As he did so, Laurence raised the hammer high and brought it down on the fellow’s skull with great force. There was a sharp crack similar to the snapping of a stick of firewood and Alpha Beta, eyes wide with shock and confusion, made a brief gagging sound as though he had a piece of food stuck in his throat. Laurence hit him again with more ferocity this time. Alpha Beta fell silent and dropped to the ground like an old pile of clothes. Alex and Russell rushed forward and bending over the body stuck their knives repeatedly deep into the fellow’s chest and stomach. The soft flesh offered no resistance to the sharp blades.
They grinned and chuckled. It felt good.
Really good.
Alpha Beta grunted quietly while his body shuddered as it received the wounds. Blood spilled out, splattering his coat and running on to the pavement. His killers stepped back to avoid it contaminating their shoes. He rolled over on to his face and they watched for a moment while life oozed out of his body. Eventually he lay still, one glittering eye visible, staring sightlessly at a small stream of his own blood.
‘Mission accomplished chaps. Game over,’ grinned Laurence. ‘Well done.’ For a moment they gazed down at their handiwork, capturing the image in their minds.
One for the memory bank.
Then, with a quick shake of hands, the group dispersed with some speed, each making their separate way home.
PART ONE
ONE
1984
Detective Inspector Paul Snow gazed at his face in the shaving mirror. He didn’t like what he saw. He rarely did, but on this occasion his natural revulsion was stronger than usual. His skin was blotchy and dark circles shadowed his eyes. He looked unhealthy and haggard. He wasn’t sleeping well and he wasn’t thinking straight most of the time. Of course he knew why. His past was coming back to haunt him in spades; closing around him like some invisible straitjacket, clamping itself around him, suffocating him, and he had no idea what to do.
His dark cupboard of secrets was about to be opened.
He parked in his usual space in the Huddersfield police station car park and sat in the car for a while. It was still early. He could see in the distance that the sun was only just rising above the stark silhouette of Castle Hill, making the ancient tower sitting there seem as though it was on fire. Snow wasn’t ready to interact with other humans just yet and so he decided to have a walk about the quiet streets before going into the office. A peaceful stroll might help him relax – and then again it might give him pause to dwell on his troubles.
Nevertheless there was something comforting about walking about the old town when it was so quiet: shops closed, traffic sporadic and only the occasional pedestrian, usually walking briskly on their way to work. He breathed in the early morning air and felt his body relax a little.
He passed a coffee shop which was open and went inside. The coffee was thin and bland but at least it was hot. As he sat hunched up on one of the plastic stools, the coffee mug inches away from his face, he gazed at the other early morning customers and wondered what terrible secrets they harboured. Were they as terrible as his?
By the time he arrived at his office, Snow had managed to stow away his dark thoughts temporarily, and to begin thinking about the case – the case that could be his undoing. He found a package waiting for him on his desk, sent by the internal police mail. With his usual measured precision, he opened it and extracted the contents: a cardboard bound note book. What had old Daniels said? ‘Here, lad, I’ll let you deal with this. You’ll think Christmas has come early.’
Snow placed the note book on his desk, opened it and then began reading.
TWO
JOURNAL OF RUSSELL BLAKE 1968-1970
I want to make some sense of it before I forget. I’m already aware how memory can play tricks on you. And, I suppose, I want to capture that fascinating rush of excitement from those early days. In writing it down, I hope I can in some strange vicarious way, re-live that time. I know now it will never be as good again. There seemed so many possibilities then but now they’ve all drifted away. But those early days with Laurence… Oh, yes…
Where did it all begin? Where does anything really begin? In the womb, I guess, while you’re soaking up your parents’ genes as your little body begins to take shape and you are influenced by all the crap your mother puts into her body, including, of course, your father’s penis, along with the booze and the pills and such like.
But then that doesn’t really make you a murderer, does it?
Or does it? How can you be sure?
To be honest, my parents were fairly docile, fairly nondescript, fairly boring individuals, who brought me up and cared for me in a desultory fashion and failed to influence me in any way about anything. They also had the decency to die young, allowing me to get on with my life in my own way. Looking back, I think of them as rather shadowy black and white creatures in the background of my Technicolor life. It seemed to me that they lacked any real passions or strong desires and I often wonder how they ever managed to summon enough enthusiasm to create me in the first place. Perhaps the stork really did deliver me and it’s all his fault.
No, the greatest influence in my life was Laurence. And it still is. Laurence Barker. Well, Barker as he was then. God bless him – although I doubt if He would.
I was just seventeen when we met at Sixth Form College. The year was 1968 and my parents had moved from Hayward’s Heath because of my father’s boring, nerdy but fairly lucrative job and landed up in Huddersfield, the sort of gritty northern town that was very popular in the British cinema round about that time. Think Billy Liar, A Taste of Honey, Room at the Top and you’ve got it. Then the town seemed to be full of old men in flat caps and long raincoats – Lowry’s stick men fleshed out, dumpy women with tight perms squeezed into garish headscarves, sad, fat teenage boys with lank hair wearing Terylene suits from Burtons and cheap imitation Carnaby Street flowered shirts, noisy
Asians who thought they were cool mimicking tabloid oafs and silly nubile girls whose main ambition in life was to get themselves in the family way and have a squawking brat to play dolls with. No A Levels or degrees for these ladies – just a pram and a stack of damp nappies. And of course a nice house on a nice estate and, most importantly, no job.
The cobbled streets, smoking chimneys and the factories were disappearing fast but there was still enough of the town’s pre-war industrial past in evidence to keep it parochial and old fashioned despite the creeping cheap plastic veneer of Sixties sophistication which was gradually invading the place. It was a small-minded, insular dump – and I hated it. But then I hated most things. Hating things made me happy. It was my hobby.
That’s what helped me to bond with Laurence. He felt like I did about Huddersfield and life. Both were a pain in the arse. Laurence had a lanky arrogance that attracted me from the start. He had what Huddersfield folk would call ‘a posh voice’ and looked like a young Peter Cook, his hair carefully combed so that it fell across his forehead, cresting his brow. His parents had been wealthy but some dodgy business deal had caused them to lose a fortune. Not only a fortune but a palatial house with grounds in the ethereal environs of Harrogate. And so like precious driftwood they had washed up on the shores of Huddersfield. Financially Laurence’s family might have been shadows of their former selves but in Huddersfield they were still rich Bentley-driving, champagne-swilling, indoor swimming-pool splashing bastards.
I knew he was a kindred soul when I first saw him at that God-awful ‘Freshers Party’ organised at Greenbank Sixth Form College to help us academic virgins bond with our fellow students. Held in what was laughingly called the common room (‘Because everyone was common in there,’ observed Laurence), the party consisted of bowls of crisps, salted peanuts, jugs of cheap non-branded cola and a boring DJ playing naff music. The other freshers, desperately trying to prove they were part of the swinging sixties, pranced about like prats, while I stood on the sidelines, bored and depressed. I was going to be sharing my life with this load of wankers for the next two years.
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