Brothers in Blood (18 page)
He knew he had to respond. He couldn’t ignore this and rush away. To make a bolt for it now would only draw attention to himself. There were loads of witnesses to pass on his description to the police.
Slowly he turned round to face the voice. It belonged to an old man, dishevelled in appearance, unshaven and wild eyed. ‘Can you tell me where gents’ bogs are? I’m bursting.’
Alex shook head, ‘No, mate. I’ve no idea,’ he muttered, shaking off the man’s hand which was still resting on his arm, and with as much relaxed aplomb as he could muster he resumed his flight.
Once out into the early morning light, he breathed in the cool fresh air in large gulps. He could hardly believe what he’d done. In his mind’s eye he saw Ronnie Fraser’s pale, gaunt face with the frothy spittle oozing from his mouth. He visualised the pillow slowly descend on his face with his own hands, fingers spread wide, pressing down.
Pressing down.
Squeezing the life out of him.
And there were his eyes, those wide staring eyes.
Staring at him.
Accusing him.
Suddenly Alex retched and he felt the foul taste of bile as it rose up into his mouth. With an effort, he swallowed it down again. His footsteps faltered for a moment, but he carried on. With a grimace, he wiped his mouth with his handkerchief and moved briskly towards the labyrinth of streets behind the hospital where he’d parked his car.
Well, he thought, as he hurried along, I’ve killed the devil, but it’s been a bit of botched job. In my cack-handed eagerness, I’ve been seen by various people who may well be able to identify me and I’ve attacked a nurse who, no doubt, has my phizzog well and truly imprinted on her mind. I could hardly have made things worse. What have I gone and done?
On reaching police headquarters, Paul Snow made himself a strong coffee before wandering into his office. On this occasion, the morning after he had interviewed Sandy McAndrew, he found a manila file waiting for him on his desk. It contained two plastic wallets. In one was a set of six dark grainy photographs, each showing the face of one of Matt Wilkinson’s victims. Paul could see that although they had been technically enhanced the features still remained indistinct. The images were harsh and blurred and lacking sufficient definition to ensure accurate identification. Even the mothers of these individuals would have difficulty recognising them, Snow thought, and gave a grimace of disappointment. Studying them he noticed that there was one thing that each of the vague faces had in common: their eyes. Wide and staring, they were. Wide with… what? Fear? Disgust? Pain? Guilt? Even perhaps a hint of pleasure? Maybe a mixture of all those emotions. It was difficult to determine.
The second wallet held individual pencil sketches of the same men. Snow examined them carefully. These were more promising. The artist had done a very competent job considering the original material he had to work with. While it was clear that the faces were only an approximation of the originals, the features were at least distinctive enough that they might possibly jog someone’s memory. He’d certainly seen worse images of Elvis. In policing terms it was better than nothing. And it was still those wide haunted staring eyes which were a prominent feature. They had obviously fascinated the artist also.
Snow spaced the drawings out across his desk and scrutinised them while he finished his coffee. Where are they now? he thought. These poor buggers. These poor buggers who had been buggered, he added as a gloomy afterthought.
Suddenly the door of his office burst open and Bob Fellows leaned into the room. His face was red and agitated.
‘A rather dramatic development, sir. Ronnie Fraser has been murdered up at the hospital.’
‘What do we know?’ asked Snow as he and Fellows set off for the hospital in Snow’s Cavalier.
‘Not a lot. Apparently a chap got access to Fraser in the early hours of the morning, pulled out all his tubes and stuff and suffocated the life out of poor devil.’
‘What about the officer on duty?’
‘Cracked on the head from behind. He’s all right though, apart from a stonking headache. Apparently the murderer was interrupted by a nurse. He just belted her to the floor and scarpered.’
‘Let’s hope she got a good look at him.’
‘There was a porter, too, I believe. He saw him.’
Snow chewed his lip. He didn’t want to admit it openly but he had no sympathy for Fraser and his death did not upset him unduly. To him he wasn’t ‘a poor devil’, just a nasty piece of work who had got what was due to him. A politically incorrect view, of course, but as far as he was concerned one that was morally just. However, the rash action of the killer who was desperate enough to risk exposure and indeed capture to silence Fraser could be a very useful breakthrough. He had to hope so.
There were several police cars parked around the entrance of the hospital, each with a vibrant flashing light. A stout uniformed sergeant led Snow and Fellows up to the intensive care ward where the Scenes of Crime Officers were busy at work in the tiny room where the body of Ronnie Fraser still lay in the bed.
‘Got a nice set of prints off this,’ said one of the officers, holding up the stone bottle. ‘It was used to bash Carmichael on the head.’
‘The constable on watch?’
The officer nodded and rolled his eyes. ‘I reckon he’d not been keeping his eye on the ball. He’s not the brightest bauble on the tree.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘They’ve got him bandaged up and lying down in one of the rooms further down the corridor. But he’ll be no use to you, sir. The only thing he saw were stars.’ He grinned at his own little joke but Snow did not respond.
‘And the nurse?’
‘Susan Watkins. She’s in the nurse’s rest room. She suffered a minor concussion, but she’s OK. WPC Sparrow is taking down a statement.’
Without a word, Snow turned and went to the bed to look at the victim. Grey faced, wide eyed, open mouthed with the veins like rope running down his neck, Ronnie Fraser looked like an old man rather than someone around thirty.
‘Not a pretty sight, eh, sir,’ said Fellows over his shoulder.
Snow was about to say something about getting his just desserts but thought better of it. He simply nodded instead. He couldn’t explain the revulsion he felt about what this man along with his evil companions had done time after time to their unsuspecting victims. Well, certainly not without revealing more about his own feelings and sensibilities.
‘Come on, let’s have a word with this nurse,’ he said turning away from the bed and its grim occupant.
Nurse Watkins, a plump and pretty woman somewhere in her mid-thirties was sitting in the nurse’s rest room, cradling a cup of tea in her hands and chatting to a young police woman. Obviously the statement had already been taken for WPC Sparrow was also sitting casually drinking a cup of tea. On seeing Snow she stood up awkwardly.
‘Morning, Sir.’
‘Morning, Sparrow. I’ll take over from here. Make sure I get a typed version of this lady’s statement on my desk by lunchtime.’
The policewoman nodded vigorously. She knew it would not do to let DI Snow down. He had exacting standards which he upheld himself and woe betide anyone who failed to meet them. WPC Sparrow gave a brisk nod at Snow and Fellows and with some relief she left the room.
Snow sat beside Susan Watkins in the same seat that Sparrow had just vacated. Her face was puffy from crying and her eyes were still moist. There were faint spidery traces of mascara advancing down her cheeks.
‘Hello,’ he said softly. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Snow. How are you feeling?’
Susan tried a smile but the lips just twitched for a few seconds. ‘I’m all right really,’ she said with little conviction. She had a strong Yorkshire accent which made her seem older than she was. ‘Physically, there’s no real damage. It was just a bit of a shock, like.’ She tried to smile again; this time it was a minor success. ‘Well… more than a bit of a shock. I mean… he could have killed me.’
Snow nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry but I’m going to ask you to tell me what happened again.’
‘But I’ve made a statement to that lass.’
‘I know but as officer in charge I need to know myself… from you. There are some questions I need to ask.’
Susan Watkins gave a sigh. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Just tell me what happened this morning. Go through it slowly. Tell me everything you saw and felt. Leave nothing out no matter how small or insignificant it seems to you. Run it like a film in your head and give me the commentary. OK?’
‘Yeah. I think so. Well, I started my shift at two and I knew I had to check on Mr Fraser before six but I had other duties to carry out before then. Do you want to hear about them?’
‘Not now, I think. Just tell me what happened when you got to Mr Fraser’s room.’
‘For a start, the copper that was usually sitting outside wasn’t there. I thought it a bit strange but I supposed he’d just gone for a pee or something.’
‘Your suspicions weren’t aroused in any way?’
‘Not really.’
‘Go on.’
‘So I opened the door to Mr Fraser’s room and the first thing I see is the copper lying on the floor by the wall. I think I was so surprised, well shocked at this, that I just opened my mouth and sort of gave a little gasp. I didn’t make much of a sound. It just seemed so unreal. Then I saw him, the man.’
‘What did he do?’
She shook her head in some distress as she relived the moment. ‘It all happened so quickly. He rushed towards me and before I knew what was happening, he grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me on the floor. Well, I banged my head and lost consciousness. Can’t have been for more than a few moments, like. When I came to, he’d done a bunk. That was it. It was all over in a matter of seconds.’
‘What was he like? Can you describe him?’
‘Well as I told the police lady it were dim lighting and so everything was shadowy-like.’
Snow realised that he’d have to lead her by the hand through the various categories. Often the sub-conscious registered more details than one was aware and it was only by gentle probing and prompting these could be released and brought to the surface.
‘Was he a tall man?’
‘Not especially. Not much more than my height. I’m five foot six.’
Snow glanced at Fellows to check that the sergeant was making notes. He was.
‘What kind of build. Was he slim? Fat?’
‘He was slim. Wiry, you might say. He moved quickly. Light on his feet.’
‘A young man, then.’
‘Oh, yes. I reckon he’d be in his late twenties or early thirties.’
‘How could you tell that?’
‘Well, he had a boyish face…’
‘So you saw his face?’
Susan seemed surprised at her own revelation. ‘Well, yes I must have.’
‘Describe it. Think carefully.’
Nurse Watkins sat forward in her chair and screwed up her face, attempting to drag images to the forefront of her mind. ‘Well he had a thin face,’ she said slowly. ‘Taut. Longish. To be honest he looked more frightened than I was.’
‘What about his hair?’
‘He had a cap on. It covered most of his head, but his hair was quite long – it went over his ears.’
‘The colour?’
‘Lightish, I think. Not quite blonde… but close.’
‘How was he dressed?’
‘He had on an anorak kind of thing on. Blue and jeans, I think. And trainers.’
Snow smiled and patted her hand. ‘That’s brilliant.’
She sighed again. ‘Is that it now?’ she asked unable to keep the anxious tone out of her voice.
‘Nearly,’ said Snow. From the manila file which had been resting on his lap he withdrew the set of sketches of Wilkinson’s victims.
‘Would you have a look at these?’ he said, holding out the sketches to Susan. ‘Take your time. Was any one of these the man you saw, the man who attacked you?’
Susan gave an involuntary shudder as she took the drawings and began to examine them. She went through each of the six sketches carefully and then returned to one again. ‘I think… I think this is the one.’
Snow felt a tingle of pleasure but his features remained neutral. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, as sure as I can be. As I said it was dark and it all happened to quickly. But this fellow’s hair, his nose… yes, I reckon that’s him.’
By the time Laurence reached Huddersfield, he was a changed man. Physically, that is. Shortly after the train had left Doncaster Station, he had made his way to the cramped lavatory and assumed his new identity. He had stripped off his white shirt, jeans and blazer, packing them in his canvas holdall, after extracting his new apparel: a pair of baggy corduroy trousers, a tweedy jacket, along with a checked shirt which he adorned with a moss coloured tie. This was his countryman model, based on a part he’d played the previous year in rep in Worthing. After donning his ‘costume’, as he regarded it, he set about altering his features: a little rouge on the cheeks, some grey powder to the hair at the temples and on the eyebrows followed by the application of a false but realistic salt and pepper moustache. The whole appearance was topped off by a jaunty checked cloth cap. He now looked like a fifty-year-old codger, a small landowner up from the country to the town to see his bank manager. He grinned at himself in the pitted mirror, pleased with his appearance.
When Laurence arrived at the hospital, having taken a taxi from Huddersfield Station, the first things he observed were the two police cars with flashing lights parked right by the entrance. Two uniformed officers were leaning against the side of one vehicle, each with their arms folded engaged in a casual conversation.
With assumed casualness, Laurence sauntered past the policemen as though they didn’t exist and made his way into the foyer; they in return took no notice of him.
Once inside the hospital, he approached the information desk. ‘I’ve seen the cops outside. Been a bit of trouble?’ he said cheerily, with a strong trace of a Yorkshire accent.
The buxom grey-haired lady behind the counter looked puzzled.
‘The police. Two cars, flashing lights. Something up?’ Laurence prompted her again.