Brothers in Blood (15 page)

‘A pretty sound one. Will do. And we could also get the artist to draw a likeness if the tape picture is too indistinct for a decent still.’

‘Yes. Fine.’ Snow said wearily, his mind reluctantly wandering back to those rough, violent and degrading images. And to the faces of the victims. Their expressions which initially showed shock, soon transmuted into horror, and then agony and disbelief. It seemed to Snow that a couple of them were already more than a little drunk before the proceedings began but were sober enough to experience the brutality of their physical invasion with crystal clarity. Each whelp and cry produced guffaws and animal grunts from the attackers. It was like some medieval torture chamber. It was strange but predictable that none of the victims had come forward to the police about these attacks. Obviously the shame and the fear of exposure were greater than their desire to convict their attackers. Snow empathised with their feelings. No doubt they thought it best to limp away, lick their wounds and try to wipe the whole ghastly business from their minds. All except… All except for those who returned for the ultimate revenge. Forensics had suggested that were probably three individuals there on the night of the murders. The three musketeers come to settle a score. Whether any or all had been victims was debateable.

One of the faces on the tapes, a young man with blonde hair, had seemed the most overwhelmed and indeed the one treated most cruelly. He screamed to be let free, but his agonised cries only spurred on the assailants to more frenzied actions. Left on his own, Snow turned the television on again and began playing the first tape. He saw Wilkinson enter the bedroom with his victim, a chubby young man with dyed blonde hair wearing a black T-shirt and cream chinos. As he moved forward to kiss the boy, Wilkinson turned and gave a knowing smile at the hidden camera.

Snow clicked the recorder on to freeze frame and gazed at the fuzzy image of that self satisfied face for some time. He gazed and remembered.

He had only been a young copper in his early twenties when he first encountered Matt Wilkinson about ten years before. He was off duty in one of the arty pubs in town when two men at the bar started an argument. Voices were raised and Snow could see things were going to get rough any time soon. His heart sank. He’d only come in for a quiet pint and a scan of the evening paper, but he knew that if a fracas developed he would have to step in to try and sort it out. He was an officer of the law after all.

The two men started pushing each other like kids in the playground. Under different circumstances it might have been funny. One of men was Wilkinson, a man about his own age, smartly dressed with a good physique. The other, an older stouter man threw the first punch but it missed its target. Wilkinson pulled back, his face registering dismay that the situation had developed into such a violent one. He held up his hands in a defensive almost placatory manner, but his companion was having none of it. He picked up one of the barstools with the intent of bringing it crashing down on Wilkinson’s head. It was then that Snow intervened. He stepped forward and grabbed the man’s arm, freezing it in mid-air.

‘Don’t be a pillock. Put the stool down,’ he said quietly

‘Who the hell are you?’ snarled the man as he tried to wrench his arm free from Snow’s iron grip.

‘I’m the law, matey and if you don’t do what I say, I’ll arrest you for causing an affray.’

Again the man tried to free himself and again he failed. He turned and stared into the face of this tall young man and saw something in his cold ice blue eyes that scared him and quelled his anger. Slowly he placed the stool on the floor.

‘He’s not worth the hassle,’ he said with a sneer, attempting to regain some of his dignity.

‘There’s a good chap,’ said Snow, still maintaining his hold on the man’s arm. ‘Now I suggest you leave. Pop off home to cool down.’

For a moment the man’s eyes flickered with hot resentment again. He seemed about to retaliate but instead he turned towards Wilkinson. ‘You can get lost, you pathetic bastard,’ he jeered and jerking his arm free from Snow’s loosened grip he headed for the door.

While all this had been happening, the other customers in the bar had been held motionless in frozen fascination and silence had fallen. As soon as the man had disappeared through the door, the place sprang back into life once more: drinks were ordered, conversation renewed, normality was restored.

‘I think I owe you a pint,’ said Wilkinson.

Paul Snow was about to refuse, but his copper’s curiosity got the better of him. He’d quite like to know what had been the cause of the kerfuffle and besides this fellow had rather a charming way with him.

‘Just a half then,’ he said with a gentle smile.

‘Grab a seat and I’ll bring it over to you.’

Paul did as he was told and when Wilkinson appeared he was carrying two pints and a couple of packets of crisps.

‘Can’t let you off with a half,’ he grinned. ‘A pint a least for the hero who saved me from a bloody nose. I’m Matt Wilkinson.’

‘Paul Snow.’

‘And you’re really a copper.’

‘Indeed I am. So… what was that all about?’

Wilkinson took a gulp of his pint and then glanced shyly at Snow over the rim of the glass. ‘Oh, something and nothing.’

Snow raised his brow. ‘A little more, I suspect.’

‘Personal stuff really. Nothing that would interest you, I’m sure.’

Snow was definitely interested but he decided not to push it and let the matter drop. He wasn’t in the interrogation room now.

‘So… do you come here often?’ said Wilkinson with a giggle.

Snow laughed too. The ice was broken. Both men relaxed.

What they talked about that night Snow could not remember now, but it was easy, engaging and somehow pleasurable. As they downed their third pint together, he had no doubts about Matt Wilkinson’s sexuality. Previously when he had met men like Wilkinson, charming and attractive, but batting for the other side as his colleagues at the station might have put it, he had walked away. It wasn’t that he was in a state of denial but he wasn’t yet prepared to cross the bridge from self acceptance to participation. That way madness lies, he told himself. Well, if not madness, various dangers. As a police officer with ‘a promising future’ as he had been told on more than one occasion by various superior officers, he knew he had to be careful – more particularly, he had to be straight or perceived to be straight. So, as a result, Snow preferred to remain isolated, intact for as long as he could manage it. He had been tempted in the past but his reserve and what he regarded as his own sense of self preservation had always been greater than his physical desires. Tonight, however, he felt his defensive shield slipping a little.

Wilkinson was a physically attractive bloke, but it was more than his appearance that captivated Snow. There was something glamorous about his personality and dangerous, too. There was an edge to him that both threatened and appealed. Even in a casual conversation he could turn from the frivolous to the covertly threatening in an instant. There was no doubt about it, Mr Matt Wilkinson had a dark side – but that was part of the attraction.

They stayed until closing time and stools were being placed on the tables. Snow wasn’t drunk but he had consumed more alcohol than usual, more than he should. Already, he thought, I’m breaking my own rules under the influence of this man.

‘Pity to call it a night so early, Paul. How about a coffee at my place, maybe a wee nightcap as well? I live not too far away. I have a flat in Orchard Row.’

Snow nodded.

On entering Wilkinson’s flat, he was conscious that he had taken several steps forward on to the bridge. Both men knew that beneath their apparently innocent conversation, there were undercurrents, electrical impulses. Snow wondered how long it would be before they became overt.

He refused a whisky nightcap and stuck with coffee. Wilkinson put on a Miles Davis LP and disappeared into the galley kitchen of his smart but decidedly tiny flat. In his absence, Snow surveyed the sitting room, his policeman’s antennae fully extended. The fittings were classy and stylish, with odd touches of extravagance like the real onyx ashtray and the top of the range hi-fi unit. It was meticulously tidy and organised.

He perched on the edge of a leather armchair and lit a cigarette and pondered the question: what was he doing here?

Wilkinson returned shortly with a tray bearing coffee in two smart black mugs and two crystal tumblers holding a generous measure of what Snow assumed was whisky. The smell told him it that it was single malt.

‘Just in case you changed your mind,’ he said impishly placing the tray down on a coffee table within Snow’s reach. He stretched out on the sofa.

‘Lovely music. Do you like Davis?’

‘I’m not too familiar with him. Sounds fine though.’

‘Cool is the word, man. Cool.’ He took a sip of whisky and gazed directly at Snow. ‘So… where do we go from here?’

Paul did not know how to answer that question and after an awkward pause he responded with a slight shrug.

‘You do know what I mean?’ Wilkinson said casually placing his fingers to his lips and blowing a kiss in Snow’s direction.

Paul felt his whole body tense. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly and then shook his head. ‘I suppose I do. It’s just…I’m… sorry. But I’m … not ready…’

Wilkinson’s face darkened. ‘But I am. Ready and gagging, my dear.’

Snow stood awkwardly. This was going too fast for him. ‘I think I’d better go.’

‘Oh, my God, we’re not a virgin are we?’ There was an edge of frustrated disgust in Wilkinson’s voice.

Snow made his way to the door. ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ he said, fully aware what an idiotic remark that was particularly as he had not touched it.

‘And thanks for nothing, Mr Tease.’

‘I’m sorry if… Well, I’m sorry.’

He hurried out of the flat and into the cool air of the street. For some moments Snow leaned against the wall and tried to bring his emotions into check. He hoped that he had done the right thing by leaving, despite the temptation to stay and all that it would have entailed. Sense had ruled over emotional inclination. As it should, he told himself.

As it should.

Only…

Fumbling in his jacket, he extracted another cigarette and lit up before moving on his way. Home to his tiny, empty terrace house. He had hardly reached the end of the street before he was experiencing pangs of regret. Suddenly he stopped, gazed at the night sky for a moment and then took a deep breath before turning round and retracing his steps.

TWENTY-TWO

Paul Snow took a trip out to Matt Wilkinson’s house at Ravensfield. He’d been there once before with Bob Fellows when the place had been crawling with the scenes of crime officers and grumpy old Dr Strong, the pathologist, was pontificating in terms very few could understand. Seeing the body of Matt Wilkinson, the back of his skull resembling a crimson sponge, had shaken Snow to the core. For a time, he felt nauseous and his vision blurred. Very little had sunk in and he quickly made his excuses to slip outside for a cigarette and gulp of air. This did not arouse anyone’s suspicions. It was well known on the force that Snow was a bit queasy in the presence of a dead body, particularly one that had been disfigured.

Snow had leaned against the wall of the house and taken in several deep breaths before lighting up. It was so strange to see the man he had been quite fond of all that time ago lying dead before him, his head almost beaten to pulp, his sightless eyes staring out at the living world in horror.

Snow had not seen or indeed heard of Wilkinson for about ten years. Not since their brief affair had come to a bitter close. What had started tentatively and gently ended acrimoniously. But before it did, there had been moments of an unusual kind of sweetness in their relationship. Wilkinson had in some strange way helped Snow admit and then accept what he was. For a few weeks he felt properly himself for the first time since he had reached manhood. However, Snow came to learn that Wilkinson was also controlling, devious, and cruel. He was a strange mixture of the possessive and the promiscuous. There was no way the relationship could survive and besides Snow knew that if it continued inevitably his private life would be discovered by his colleagues, whose job was curiosity after all. For a short time he walked a dangerous tightrope and although he was relieved when it was all over, Snow knew that he would be grateful to Matt Wilkinson for allowing him to be himself, even if it was for a brief butterfly moment.

And now he was engaged to solve his murder.

So here was back at the scene of the killings on his own. He wandered around the ghost house, observing but not touching. Anything of real relevance would have been bagged up and taken for forensic examination anyway. The bloodstains remained on the gym floor, creating a weird dark crimson pattern on the polished woodwork, reminding Snow of a piece of Jackson Pollock artwork. The smell of death lingered in the room and he felt uneasy in its presence. He retreated and returned downstairs. While passing through the sitting room towards the outer door his eyes lit upon the onyx ashtray he had used that first night in Wilkinson’s flat, that ocean of time ago. It brought a wry smile to his mouth. ‘Come on, boy,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Put the past behind you and start dealing with the bloody present.’

Bobby Rawlins was a cockney skeleton in an Hawaiian shirt. Well, that’s how Paul Snow thought of him. His pale face was crisscrossed with a thousand wrinkles, the result of a thousand late nights and thousand fags from a chain-smoking habit which began some forty years ago when Bobby was twelve.

Rawlins was the owner of the Starlight Club. Snow had never been into the club as a punter, although he had been tempted in his early days, but he had visited the ‘cockney skeleton’ a few times in recent years regarding various drug offences in the club. Nothing had been proved. ‘Would I sell that stuff on my own turf, Mr Snow, I ask you?’ He was right out of central casting as a dodgy small time East End villain. How he’d found his way up the M1 to Yorkshire was anyone’s guess.