Back-Slash

What is the secret of the forester living a hermit-like existence in the remotest part of the Wingate Estate? Is he a callous murderer? Is he now taking a terrible revenge on those who wronged him? Or, does the truth lie elsewhere? 

A ruthless killer is on the rampage, one with a distinctive trademark. With resources decimated by a flu epidemic, Mike Nash is forced to use unorthodox tactics to expose a web of corruption and deceit spanning the years. Evidence all seems to point to an inevitable conclusion, but will Mike be able to uncover the truth, and can he do so before it is too late for all concerned - be they innocent or guilty?

I’d like to thank everyone who has contributed towards the book you are holding. ‘Freddie Green’, who taught me the
sure-fire
way to extract information from a prisoner. Don’t look for Freddie in your phone book. That isn’t his real name – for obvious reasons.

To the very real Julian Corps whose charity donation gave him the chance to become a character in this book.

My wife Val, whose editing, proof-reading and continuity skills contribute more and more to the series.

My readers, Pat Almond and Cath Brockhill, who gave their opinion on the original draft.

Derek Colligan, whose splendid covers have done much to attract potential readers to the Mike Nash series.

And above all, to everyone at Robert Hale for their continued support – and patience!

Anna was late. Her clattering footsteps on the concrete steps of the multi-storey car park reflected her haste. Although she was behind schedule she had taken precious minutes to check her appearance in the mirror before leaving the office. She wanted nothing to give Alan cause for suspicion. She felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of Alan. Deceiving him was the worst part of the whole business.

The car park was deserted, badly lit. Most of the light bulbs had succumbed to the attention of vandals. Anna wrinkled her nose in distaste, the stairwell smelt of stale urine and vomit. Her car was on level seven, parked against one of the concrete supports in the most remote corner. She unlocked the door and was about to step in when she heard a rustling sound. She glanced round. Surprise turned to shock, shock to horror and she opened her mouth to scream.

The trial lasted three days; extremely short for a murder case. The evidence was circumstantial but convincing. The plea of not guilty had little to support it. Faced with the allegations of the prosecution and with little to refute them, the judge’s
direction
to the jury was disposed heavily in favour of the Crown. As one reporter whispered to another, ‘Why bother with a jury, the verdict’s already been handed down.’

The jurors needed less than an hour to consider their
findings. They filed back into the court, conspicuously avoiding the defendant’s gaze. Their foreman rose in response to the usher’s call.

‘Have you reached a verdict?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘And is that verdict unanimous?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘On the charge of the murder of Anna Marshall, how do you find the defendant Alan Charles Marshall?’

‘Guilty.’

‘Alan Charles Marshall, you have been found guilty of the murder of your wife Anna Marshall, a verdict with which I entirely agree. This was a brutal crime carried out in cold blood. You knew your wife’s love for you was dead. You knew she was on the point of leaving you. You could not tolerate that rejection so you slit her throat in the cruellest and most gory manner; using such violence you almost decapitated her. Then you calmly drove more than sixty miles to dispose of the body into the North Sea. Hoping no doubt that it would remain there so that the evidence of your foul deed would remain undetected. However, the sea gave up the corpse, your wife’s body was
identified
and the police investigation uncovered the motive behind your evil action. In view of the nature of the crime, the complete lack of remorse you have shown, and your refusal to
acknowledge
your undoubted guilt in the face of unchallenged evidence, I therefore sentence you to life imprisonment with the
recommendation
that in this instance that should mean a term of no less than twenty-five years.’

‘It is the opinion of the Court of Appeal that this conviction is not safe. Our findings are based on inconsistencies in the evidence presented by the prosecution at the original trial and we are less than satisfied that the direction to the jury was other than prejudicial to the defendant. This court deems that the
defendant’s guilt was not established beyond reasonable doubt, and therefore determines that the conviction of Alan Charles Marshall for the murder of Anna Marshall be set aside. The defendant is free to return to the community.’

As the handful of attendees filed out, Marshall stepped from the dock. He was greeted by his counsel with a curt nod. As the barrister stuffed the case notes into a folder, Marshall asked, ‘How much is this going to cost?’

‘No concern of yours. The bill’s been paid. You’re a free man, what more do you want?’

‘I want to know who paid.’

‘I’m not at liberty to say. Accept your freedom and be grateful. If you want something to worry about, prepare yourself for the press when you walk through that door.’

The small dwelling was more than remote, it was isolated. Although the scenery was beautiful there was little else to recommend it. The single-storey cottage had nothing in the way of luxury apart from an ancient, but serviceable, Aga. It was no place for the social-minded. For a hermit it was ideal. The prospective tenant nodded approvingly. ‘It’ll do.’

‘You understand the terms? If you leave your job you’ve to leave the cottage.’

‘I understand.’

‘You’re quite sure? It gets lonely out here and pretty bleak in winter.’

‘Suits me.’

‘Then it’s yours, and the job with it.’

There were only ten shopping days before Christmas. DI Mike Nash grimaced at the thought; office parties, drunken brawls, domestic violence and opportunist thieves. That’s what Christmas meant to him. When he walked into Helmsdale police station he was surprised to see the reception desk manned by
Sergeant Binns, who’d been working at HQ in Netherdale. ‘What are you doing here, Jack?’

‘I’ve been sent back. Flu!’

‘Who’s gone down with it now?’

‘Almost everybody. Apart from you, me and your visitor.’

‘My visitor? Who?’

‘The chief constable, no less. She doesn’t visit many of her officers’ – Binns gave a sly glance – ‘but we all know she has a soft spot for you.’

‘You’ve been listening to Clara too much; you’re getting to sound like her.’

Nash hurried upstairs to his office. ‘Morning, ma’am.’

Gloria O’Donnell, the highly respected chief constable, known irreverently as ‘God’ because of her initials, more than for her rank, looked up from his desk. ‘Morning, Mike. I came to ask for help because of the flu outbreak, but it seems you’ve got your own problems.’ Nash raised his eyebrows questioningly. ‘I’ve taken two phone calls since I got here. Both Mironova and Pearce have gone down with the virus. Netherdale station is like the Marie Celeste. You’re the only CID officer in the area who’s fit for duty. There seems little chance of any of them returning to work this side of New Year.’

‘That’s going to be fun, with the mayhem the festive season brings.’

‘Tell me about it. The only solution I can come up with is to let civilian clerical staff run the desk at Netherdale. You’ll have to make do with a community support officer here. That’ll free Binns up to work with you in CID. I’ve just got hold of DC Andrews. She’s been on attachment to Yorkshire Central. I told them I needed her back. She’s on her way. They squealed a bit, but I pulled rank. She lives in Netherdale, so that helps. Oh, and I’ve had a word with HMIC. In view of the circumstances, they’re prepared to lend me Superintendent Edwards again, short term. You’ve worked together before, so that shouldn’t be a problem.’

‘That would help. Don’t suppose a recruitment drive’s on the cards yet?’

O’Donnell sighed. ‘Let’s not talk about that. The cutbacks are
getting worse. I can’t have a new deputy, vacancies aren’t being filled; even civilian staff levels are being culled. Put it this way, if you drop a paperclip, pick it up.’

‘That bad?’

‘With the whole country having to tighten its belt, then so must we. With rising unemployment there’s bound to be a hike in the crime rate, but that carries no weight. We’ve to knuckle down and get on with it. It’s not much I’m afraid, but it’s the best I can do for the time being.’

‘That means Helmsdale has four officers, Edwards, me, Binns and DC Andrews, plus a rookie for the desk? I should be able to cope.’

O’Donnell paused before telling him the worst. ‘No, Mike, that’s to cover Netherdale as well.’

The buzzing took on an angrier note as the chain made contact with timber. The process had been going on for three days. The pile of stacked lengths of wood at the edge of the clearing, and the pale tops of exposed tree stumps testified to the level of activity.

The chainsaw operator paused. Despite the cold December wind he was sweating from both the thickness of his quilted shirt and the effort. Wiping his brow he transferred liberal quantities of sawdust from his shirtsleeve to his forehead. He switched off the saw and rested it against one of the stumps. Thinning trees was a job he enjoyed most, in hindsight. He didn’t even have the distraction of a companion to enliven his rest breaks. He reached for his knapsack. A pale winter sun hung low in the sky. He reckoned it was about 2 p.m. Time for lunch.

Taking his flask, he brewed a mug of tea and examined the clearing as he ate his sandwiches. With luck he’d have the job finished by the weekend. He thought briefly of Nell; wondered whether she gave him a thought out here on his own. He smiled wryly; he of all people should be used to being alone.

Using a long-bladed knife from the sheath on his belt, he sliced effortlessly through an apple; then tossed the core into the
long grass. He stood up, flexed his arms and back, repacked his knapsack and fired up the chainsaw again.

Some accidents are down to carelessness; some are pure misfortune. In this instance it was both. As the chainsaw bit into the trunk of a silver birch the head of a nail snagged one of the teeth. The chain snapped, but the drive continued feeding links round the blade. It unwound with the speed of a striking
rattlesnake
. His hands felt the change first. He slackened his grip on the trigger. A split second later he saw the chain arcing towards him. He ducked to his right.

The last few links caught against the side of the guard, slowing the chain and slewing it slightly. The reduction in speed and the change in its path undoubtedly saved his life.

Shock deprived him of movement. He stared down at his quilted shirt, ripped apart in a long gash across his arm and chest. Blood began to spurt from the wounds. He was alone, miles from help. He took a deep breath, let the saw drop and cut the motor off with the toe of his boot.

Using his right hand, he unbuckled his belt, wrenched it from his jeans and looped it tightly round his upper arm,
manoeuvring
the improvised tourniquet above the wound. He took another deep breath. Shock was making him dizzy. He’d over a mile to walk. Even then he’d be little better off. Without a phone, the cottage was as remote as this wood. There was no
alternative
. He’d have to drive or bleed to death.