Brothers in Blood

by David Stuart Davies

  They were just about to enter this period now with the Matt Wilkinson/Alex Marshall murder case. There had been a big response to Marshall’s picture shown on the television, most of it genuine. Inevitably there had been the usual loonies who came up with wild stories and accusations ranging from the victim being an alien to him having set fire to their Ford Fiesta in a pub car park last Bank Holiday. However, they all needed checking out, wasting valuable police time and resources in the process. In this case, apart from identifying Marshall and his place of work, there was no new information received. His work colleagues had been interviewed but all they could say was that he was a quiet chap, possibly gay and kept himself to himself.

  There had been no progress with tracing the calls to Alex’s house and it was unlikely there would be. The technology was simply not in place. Meanwhile Sergeant Fellows was still waiting for the Brighton police to get back to him about the guest with the initial ‘L’ staying at the Sea Hotel in 1976. The only bright light in the gloom was the telephone number that the young chap John had passed on to Snow. Although he had been tempted to ring the number out of the blue, he knew that this would have been far too reckless. Such an action could easily tip off whoever was on the other end of the line that the police were interested in them and a speedy disappearing act would result. No, he needed an address. And so once more he had put in a request to BT for help. He handled the matter personally rather than delegating it to Bob Fellows or others. On this occasion BT had managed to come up with an address for the number.

  ‘Would you mind telling me where we are going?’ enquired Bob Fellows with a certain amount of irritation. He was used to his boss keeping his cards close to his chest but he usually gave him some sort of clue as to what he was about. Here they were haring up the A1 to God knows where – or precisely only Snow knew where.

  Snow allowed himself a terse grin. ‘We’re headed for 12 Willows Walk, Gillesgate Moor, near Durham.’

  ‘Oh, that’s OK then,’ he said drly. ‘And why exactly are we going there and what do you hope to find?’

  ‘Not quite sure. I think I’d better explain.’

  ‘That would be useful, sir.’

  Briefly, Snow told of his encounter with John and how he had secured the mysterious telephone number. ‘It could be something and nothing. That’s why for now I’ve not logged it.’

  ‘I see, sir.’ Fellows rolled his eyes. This was typical of Snow. Even if it turned out to be the phone number of the local Samaritans, he should have logged it. That was the procedure. That was the rule. Now here we were off on police business without an official reason. Snow loved to play things this way – his way. If only he didn’t include me in his little intrigues, Fellows thought.

  ‘But fingers crossed, sergeant, it could turn out to be the break we need.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Snow laughed. ‘I love your enthusiasm, Bob. Now if you’ll drag that map book off the back seat and work out a route for us from the motorway to Gillesgate Moor.’

  Willows Walk turned out to be one of a series of similarly named streets on a modern housing estate some five miles north of Durham itself. There was Oak Avenue, Larch Crescent, Chestnut Way etc. It was a fairly smart complex, most of the houses being detached, albeit situated very close to one another. However there wasn’t a willow in sight or indeed a tree of any kind.

  After a few wrong turns in the labyrinthine estate, Snow eventually pulled up outside number twelve. ‘Right, Bob, let’s see where this leads us.’

  The door was opened by a pretty woman, aged around thirty with short blonde hair, intelligent blue eyes and haggard features. It was clear that she was pregnant. Snow held his identification card for her to see but before he could say a word, the woman grabbed his arm.

  ‘Has there been some news. Have you found him?’

  ‘No,’ said Snow instinctively.

  The spark of hope died in the woman’s eyes and her shoulders slumped as though she had just been presented with a giant invisible burden. For a moment Snow thought she was going to faint, but then she rallied.

  ‘May we come in?’

  Without a word, the woman stood back and allowed the two men to pass by her into the hall.

  ‘What is it, Sandra?’ asked a woman who emerged from the sitting room, holding a mug of tea. She was around forty with a homely face and dressed in jeans and a woollen top.

  Sandra shook her head. ‘The police. They still haven’t found Russell.’

  Snow was not sure how to play this, but before he had time to think any further, Sandra introduced the other woman as ‘my neighbour Joan’

  Snow smiled at Joan. ‘If you don’t mind, we’d like a word alone with Sandra. Perhaps you could make us both a cup of tea, eh? Milk, no sugar.’

  Joan nodded and scuttled off to the kitchen without a word.

  Sandra led them into a comfortable, well-ordered lounge. Snow surveyed the room professionally, building up ideas and evidence to try and understand what had been going on here. The furniture was modern, stylish and of a reasonable quality. The house belonged to a professional couple he guessed and there they were framed on the mantelpiece, caught in gaudy colour on their wedding day. The man – Russell he assumed – had unfashionably long hair and peaky features. The grin that he wore was not his own, it was borrowed for the occasion. He certainly didn’t look comfortable having his picture taken. The woman was a slightly younger looking Sandra.

  ‘When did your husband disappear?’ Snow asked.

  Sandra frowned heavily in response. ‘What on earth do you mean? You know all this. I’ve made a statement.’

  ‘You’ve made a statement to the Northumberland police no doubt. We’re from West Yorkshire.’ Snow held up his ID again.

  Sandra shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘We’re here for a different reason, a different investigation. Not the one about your missing husband – but it is possible that the two cases are linked.’

  Sandra shook her head in some confusion and sank into an armchair.

  ‘When did your husband disappear?’

  ‘Two days ago. He didn’t come home from school. He’s… he’s a teacher.’

  ‘Is this unusual?’

  ‘Of course it’s bloody unusual!’

  ‘And you have no notion where he may have gone or what has happened to him?’

  ‘Of course I don’t.’ Sandra was shouting now and her eyes had begun to moisten.

  ‘I’m sorry to upset you, but I need to get the situation clear. Does your husband know someone called Alex Marshall?’

  Sandra thought for a moment. ‘Alex,’ she said softly to herself and her mind went back to a few days earlier, to that strange midnight phone call Russell made. Did she catch the name Alex? Was it her imagination? What on earth did it mean? Why was everything suddenly such a mess? Instinctively she stroked her bulging tummy and allowed her tears to fall.

  Snow threw a glance at Fellows but said nothing. He knew that it was best to wait, to allow the woman to control her own emotions. Anything he said would not help matters.

  At length, Sandra Blake pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and staunched the tears. ‘I’m not sure if he knew anyone called Alex or not. But if he did, I didn’t know anything about him.’

  ‘Did your husband have any friends in Huddersfield?’

  Sandra seemed puzzled at this question. ‘He might have,’ she said slowly. ‘Old friends, I suppose. From the past. He was from Huddersfield originally. He came up to Durham to the University and stayed. Look, what is this case you’re investigating? How does it involve Russell?’

  ‘A man was murdered in Huddersfield and he had your husband’s telephone number. We know that on one occasion at least the victim rang this number here in the early hours of the morning.’

  ‘You… you think that my Russell is involved in this murder?’

  ‘We’d just like to find out more about his relationship…’
>
  ‘With this Alex?’

  Snow nodded. ‘He could provide us with a vital clue.’

  ‘Well, he can’t can he, because he’s missing and no one knows where the hell he is.’ Her face flushed and the tears began again.

  ‘What have the police done so far about finding him?’

  Sandra shrugged and her features stiffened. ‘No much as far as I can see. They took a statement and a photograph which they were going to circulate. They said that as it’s only just been over forty-eight hours, there’s still time for him to walk in through the door. They said it wasn’t unusual for men who are just on the brink of fatherhood to disappear for a few days without warning.’

  Snow nodded. It did happen but it wasn’t exactly a common occurrence.

  ‘Did your husband have a desk, a workspace, somewhere he kept his correspondence?’

  Sandra hesitated. She didn’t like the sound of this. ‘Yes,’ she said at length, ‘he used a small office at the back of the house – where did his school work – lesson preparation and stuff.’

  ‘May we see it?’

  Snow could tell that she was going to refuse. ‘I know this may seem an imposition,’ he added swiftly, his voice soft and reasonable, ‘but it really may help in finding out what’s happened to your husband. Clearly there is a mystery here and mysteries can only be solved by investigation.’

  For some moments Sandra stared ahead of Snow, her eyes focused on nothing in particular. ‘Very well,’ she said after a few moments. ‘It can’t make things worse, can it?’ She rose and led them into the hall just as Joan the neighbour came from the kitchen carrying two mugs.

  ‘Your tea,’ she said brightly.

  ‘Thank you. Later perhaps,’ said Snow as he and Fellows followed Sandra down the hall.

  For a little cramped office, the room was reasonably tidy. It contained a desk, a filing cabinet, a book case and a small wardrobe. Papers were scattered across the desk and there was a pile of play copies – Romeo and Juliet – on the floor.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Blake. If you wouldn’t mind leaving us alone for a while, we’ll be quick and tidy. There will be no mess, I promise. Just give us fifteen minutes.’

  Reluctantly she withdrew without a word.

  Snapping on his latex gloves, Snow began examining the contents of the desk drawers while Fellows investigated the wardrobe.

  ‘Here, sir, look at this,’ he said after only a few moments. He held up a train ticket. ‘A return to Huddersfield dated the day before the Wilkinson murders. It was in one of his jacket pockets.’

  ‘Then we’re on the right track. Good man. Keep looking.’

  The filing cabinet was locked but Snow soon found the key in an empty vase on the window sill. Pulling out the drawers in turn they all seemed to be filled with school related material: test papers, lesson plans, exam schedules. One folder near the back contained Blake’s own academic certificates: his O levels, A Levels, his BA degree and his Cert Ed. Slipped in with these were a few other items. There were a couple of play bills: one for the York Theatre Royal for an Alan Ayckbourn comedy and one for the Library Theatre in Manchester for a drama Snow had never heard of before. He scrutinised these for a few moments, coming to the conclusion that the only connection between the two was an actor who appeared in both productions – an actor by the name of Laurence Dane. Laurence. Could he be the ‘L’ on the letter from Brighton? There was a kind of desperation in such a thought, but nevertheless it was possible. Snow made a mental note of the details before returning the flyers to the folder. There was one other loose item that claimed his attention: a faded photograph. It was of a burly youth astride a motorbike.

  Snow had seen the snap before. There had been an identical one in the tin box he had found at Alex Marshall’s house. The connection was sealed – surely? He allowed himself a brief grin of satisfaction before showing the photograph to Fellows. Without a word the two men exchanged knowing glances. Now, thought Snow, all they had to do was find this Russell Blake.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Inspector Ray ‘Dinosaur’ Daniels gave a cry of dismay as his size elevens slipped in the mud and he ended up plonking one foot into the water. (He was known as ‘Dinosaur’ partly because he had the size and clumsiness of a prehistoric beast and partly because he seemed to have been in the force since the beginning of time.) ‘Why can’t they murder ‘em somewhere where it’s dry?’ he moaned. None of the other officers offered a response.

  Stepping back on to firmer ground and wiping his shoe on the grass, Daniels watched as the two officers in wet suits pulled the body onto the banks of the murky pool. The bulk of it was covered with the slime and silt, but the head and face were comparatively clean.

  ‘My God,’ said Daniels, gazing at the back of the victim’s skull. ‘He certainly had his brains bashed in and not half. His killer was taking no chances for him to survive. I think we’ve got a nasty one here, Sergeant’

  His pale-faced companion nodded.

  ‘No worries about the fellow’s identity, sir,’ cried one of the wet-suited officers. He held up a small black object. ‘It’s his wallet. Got all his info inside: credit card, NUT membership card. It seems he’s a teacher. Lives at Willows Walk.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Russell Blake.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  That evening as Paul Snow was attempting to unwind with a can of lager and some pap television, the doorbell rang. It had a soft tone, but whoever had his finger on the bell was holding it down, creating a long-winded irritating, muted cacophony.

  With a frown of annoyance etched deep in his forehead and a grunted sigh, Snow dragged himself from his armchair and answered the front door. Michael Armitage was standing on the threshold. His stance was macho: legs apart, arms folded across his chest, a cocky smile nailed to his lips, eyes glittering with malice. A parochial Rambo.

  ‘Evenin’, sir,’ he said, the cocky smile spreading. ‘Sorry to bother you at home, but I’ve got some business to discuss and I reckoned it were better done on your own patch, rather than at work. Can I come in?’

  For the moment Snow was lost for words. He had a good idea what the ‘business’ was that Armitage wished to discuss but he had no notion how to respond. He had not expected this. Well, not yet anyway. Not so soon. Armitage it seemed was already moving matters into the fast lane.

  Snow pulled the door back and stood aside to let his visitor inside and guided him into the sitting room.

  Armitage saw Snow’s can of lager by his chair and nodded. ‘Wouldn’t mind one of them myself. Got a spare?’

  Still without speaking, Snow retrieved a cold can from the fridge in the kitchen and handed it to Armitage.

  ‘Ta. The perfect host. Still you lot are good at the niceties, aren’t you?’ He softened his voice to an effeminate sibilance on the word ‘niceties’.

  ‘What can I do for you, Sergeant?’ Snow said.

  Armitage pulled the ring on the lager can as though it was a hand grenade and took a large gulp.

  ‘Do you like the leather jacket? Pretty cool, eh? Cost a packet. Normally I wouldn’t be able to afford such things… but now…’

  Snow found himself clenching his fists again with suppressed anger. He wanted to kill the man. To beat the sneering, arrogant corrupt bastard to death and then stamp on his face. That’s what he wanted to do. It was as simple as that. It took all his self-control not to launch himself at Armitage and strangle the life out of him, to watch the light fade from those mocking eyes and that grin to twist into a grimace of pain. But instead, he just raised an eyebrow and waited for Armitage to continue.

  ‘I reckon it’s time that we came to a regular arrangement. The one off cash payment was good but now the money’s spent, I find I’m in need of more.’

  Snow continued to remain silent.

  ‘I think you know what I’m saying.’

  Armitage still received no response. His face darkened with annoyance. ‘If you want me to keep stum about you being a pans
y boy, you’re gonna have to cough up on regular basis. Like an insurance policy.’

  Snow was about to say, ‘And if I refuse…?’ but he was well aware that this would be a redundant query. He already knew the answer. Armitage would take great and malicious pleasure in demolishing his career.

  The same feeling of despair that Snow had experienced the first time Armitage had issued his blackmail threats swept him once more. He was cornered, snared like a rat in a trap. There was nowhere for him to run, to hide, to escape. He had to meet his miserable fate head on.

  ‘I think you know what I mean,’ sneered Armitage.

  ‘And I think that you’d better get to the point,’ Snow said.

  After a sleepless night, Snow drove into the office early. He felt a leaden weight upon his soul and in truth he didn’t know how he was going to get through the next few days, let alone the rest of his life. It wasn’t just the financial damage that Armitage was imposing on him, but the fact that in a sense he was now the prisoner, the plaything and puppet of this foul and evil man. Apart from money, what else could this swine demand of him?

  Once in his office and cradling a cup of the blackest coffee, he tried to shun thoughts of Armitage for the moment and force himself to concentrate on the case in hand. As it turned out, events aided him in this pursuit.

  There was a tap at the door and Sally Morgan came in. ‘A bit of news, sir. We’ve had a response from the Sea Hotel in Brighton at last.’ She smiled and it was a warm, almost affectionate smile. In Snow’s rather delicate and tortured state, it touched him, almost bringing a lump to his throat.

  ‘Good,’ he said and attempted to return the smile.

  ‘Apparently there were three people staying at the hotel on that day with a letter L in either their first or last name.’ She consulted a sheet of paper she held in her hand. ‘A Lorna Hirst, a Laurence Dane and a Gladys Lightfoot.’

  Snow made a note of the names. Of course, one leapt out at him: Laurence Dane. That was the name of the actor on the two play bills in Russell Blake’s office.

  ‘See if you can find out anything about Mr Dane, Sally. See if he’s got form. He’s an actor and probably registered with Equity.’