Brothers in Blood (20 page)

He hoped.

Exposure would be disastrous.

Snow shut down this idea instantly. It was time to channel his thoughts into other directions. But first a brew. He was just about to move when the phone rang on his desk.

With practised ease he snatched up the receiver. ‘Snow,’ he said sharply.

‘It’s PC Yeats here, sir. I was on duty this morning at the hospital outside Intensive Care when you came to the crime scene.’

‘What is it, Yeats?’

‘It’s that bloke, sir. The one who turned up to see his mother.’

‘Crowther – sports jacket and cords. Yes, I remember.’

‘Well, sir, there weren’t no Mrs Crowther in Intensive Care and there hasn’t been anyone of that name in there for ages – eighteen months at least. And after you went, the bloke disappeared.’

‘In a puff of smoke?’

‘When I went into the ward to see if I could find out about this Mrs Crowther, he went off for a pee and never came back. It all seemed a bit funny, bit suspicious to me, sir. I just thought you ought to know.’

‘Yes, you were right. It may be something and nothing… and then again… Thank you Constable. If you find out any more information, let me know.

‘Yes, sir.’

Snow replaced the receiver and stroked his chin again. Curious, he thought, and tried to bring to his mind’s eye an image of this mysterious Mr Crowther. He remembered a Harris Tweed-type sports coat and a flat cap. The face… yes the face was constantly being turned away from him: but Snow had an automatic filing system in place for such encounters. Without thinking, he stored details away. That face. Yes. Moustache, ruddy cheeks. A countryman – or someone pretending to be a countryman. But it was a good performance. Well, it had convinced him at the time. Facts had shown that the man obviously wasn’t who he said he was and that certainly made him a suspicious character. Where is he now? Snow sighed. Needle in a haystack time again. He needed a coffee.

If Laurence had known that his alter ego, Mr Countryman Crowther, was in the thoughts of Detective Inspector Paul Snow, he would have had second thoughts about booking in at the Huddersfield Centre Hotel in that name the same afternoon. Laurence realised that the way events had turned out, he could hardly return to London until this ugly matter was resolved one way or the other.

And he reckoned it would have to be the other.

Fate it seemed was lubricating the passage towards the Great Game finale. The realisation of this brought a strange melancholic mingling of sadness and relief. The performance had dragged on too long perhaps and it was probably time to ring down the curtain and bring up the houselights. He who lived by the greasepaint must die by the greasepaint. Laurence smiled at his own conceit.

But he had to be certain of the facts. That’s why he was staying around, registering at the Huddersfield Centre Hotel as Walter Crowther, sans moustache, baggy pants and the other parts of his disguise ensemble.

With a sigh, he dumped his bag on the floor, flung himself on the bed and fell asleep almost immediately. It had been a long day and a disappointing one. The only remedies for such outcomes were sleep and alcohol. For now sleep would suffice. Alcohol would come later.

On waking, he freshened up by washing his face and brushing his teeth. Feeling more alert, he returned to the bed and switched on the television just in time to catch the local early evening news. The hospital murder was the first item. It was as he suspected, someone had gone into the Intensive Care unit at Huddersfield hospital in the early hours of the morning and murdered one of the patients, a Mr Ronnie Fraser. The newscaster explained that Mr Fraser had been recovering from a violent attack he had suffered on the previous Saturday night. What happened next almost brought Laurence’s heart to a halt. A pencil drawing appeared on the screen. The newscaster explained that this was an artist’s impression of the man the police were anxious to interview in connection with the murder. The face that flickered before him was Alex’s. Or a close approximation of it. Close enough for anyone who knew him at all to recognise him.

Laurence stared open-mouthed in shock at the drawing on the screen. He found himself shaking his head in some form of pointless denial. My God, he thought. Now we’re for it. The applecart has been well and truly overturned.

Alex has been a prize pillock.

A very dangerous prize pillock.

A telephone number was flashed up on the screen while a voice advised viewers to contact this number if they recognised the face in the drawing.

Laurence let out roar of anger at Alex’s stupidity and incompetence, but he knew that he did not have the time for futile emotions. He imagined the phone lines already hot with callers all identifying Alex. He had to act fast in order and get to his wayward colleague before the police did.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Paul Snow was also watching
Calendar
, the local news programme, which paraded the sketch of the man they were looking for. He was sitting alone in his office, gazing at the screen with cool detachment. He knew that somewhere out there were a number of people looking at the same picture and being amazed because they thought they knew this man. They were shocked, too, because he was involved in a murder investigation. Very soon someone would ring the telephone number provided and give them the information they wanted and bingo! they would have their man. That was the hoped for scenario at any rate.

When the newscaster went on to another story, Snow switched off the set but kept staring at the screen deep in thought. How much of Matt Wilkinson’s history would emerge when this case was solved? Or more particularly, how safe was his own history? He had no doubts that this was a dangerous time for him and somehow Fate had thrust him on to the front line.

His reverie was interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. A large face appeared around the edge.

‘Might I have a word, sir?’

It was Sergeant Michael Armitage. Snow had only a passing acquaintance with him. He’d worked with him before on a couple of minor investigations and he had been drafted in to help out on the Wilkinson case. There was something about the man that Snow did not like. His demeanour and deportment suggested arrogance and a lack of sensitivity. Armitage had a blokish swagger and a ready sneer that Snow found off-putting. He was a man’s man in the worst sense of the phrase.

‘Sure,’ said Snow as Armitage came into the room and shut the door. He was a big man, over six feet tall and bulky – overweight with a beer belly, broad features topped with thinning blonde hair and the possessor of two large gobstopper eyes.

‘It’s this Wilkinson case. It’s thrown up some interesting evidence.’

Snow’s face expressed interest but he said nothing.

Suddenly Armitage’s lips formed themselves into an unpleasant grin, more of a leer to Snow’s thinking, and then with an attempt at a melodramatic gesture he pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and waved it airily before Snow.

‘It seems we have a poofter on board. A brown noser on the force.’ The leer broadened and eyes sparkled with malice.

Snow felt his stomach muscles tighten. Suddenly things began to seem a little unreal and yet, strangely, he knew what was about to happen.

‘I have evidence,’ continued Armitage as he placed the envelope down, his spatula fingers spread widely, pressing it flat on the desk. ‘Evidence. Shirtlifters in our sights, Captain.’ With the theatricality of a second rate magician, he extracted the photograph contained inside the envelope. It was an ordinary black and white snap and showed two men grinning at the camera with their arms over each other’s shoulder, their faces touching.

The two men were Paul Snow and Matt Wilkinson.

Snow remembered the photograph. He used to have a copy of it himself. He also remembered the occasion when it was taken. Someone’s birthday party. He was a little drunk. So was Matt. The snap was over ten years old.

Snow pursed his lips and looked up into Armitage’s face with its gargoyle grin, but continued to say nothing

‘Cosy. They make a lovely couple don’t they? I found this at Wilkinson’s place along with a lot of other … what shall we say … less sedate pics? Bum boys on show and at it. I reckon you’d be familiar with the sort of stuff I mean. Funny I should find this little gem slipped in amongst them. I should say that this is fairly compromising. Wouldn’t you say so…? Sir?’

Just at that moment Snow wanted to lash out with his fist, and hit Armitage squarely in the face. He wanted to hear the satisfying crack of bone as his knuckles demolished that thick mound of flesh that Armitage used as a nose. He wanted to see blood spout from his cavernous nostrils; hear the surprised grunt of pain as he fell backwards to the floor.

No. He wanted more than that. Just at that moment he wanted to kill the bastard.

‘I knew Wilkinson many years ago,’ Snow said at length, his voice steady and unemotional.

‘Knew him… in what sense do you mean… Sir?’ It was quite a feat, Snow thought, for Armitage to inject so much sarcasm and derision in one short word.

‘We were friends for a while.’

‘Boy friends?’ His eyes shone with vicious humour.

‘What are you after, Armitage? What little game are you playing?’

‘Oh, I think it’s you… you’re the one who’s playing games. Little fairy games.’

Snow’s hands, which had slipped down below the top of the desk out of sight, formed themselves into tight fists, the nails digging hard into his palms. He was determined not to lose his temper with this low life bastard, but he needed to do something to help contain his anger, to subjugate it. Inflicting pain on himself did the trick – for the present at least.

I wonder what they’d say out there,’ Armitage gestured to the door, ‘if they knew that their DI was a queer, a member of the Queen’s own.’

‘It isn’t true,’ Snow said softly. He tried to make light of the accusation, to smile but it never made it to his lips. His response sounded defensive and weak.

‘Oh, I reckon this picture and the circumstances under which it was found say otherwise.’

‘Only to those with a nasty mind.’

Armitage laughed. What was particularly chilling to Snow was that the strange sound he produced was a genuine laugh; it wasn’t an artificial gesture. He really was amused by what Snow accepted was his rather lame and naïve response to the foul taunts.

‘So, this is a threat.’

‘You didn’t get to be DI for nothing, did you Mr Snow?’ Armitage tapped his brow with his forefinger. ‘Smart, that’s what you are. Smart and… queer.’

Snow knew it was pointless to protest, deny or bluster. In essence this Neanderthal in a policeman’s uniform was right. Yes, he was ‘queer’; but not in
his
interpretation of the word. He wasn’t a promiscuous, sibilant camp floozy who was after anything hunky in trousers, the creature so effectively portrayed in films, comedy shows and in the press. He was far from that. In truth he was a sad bugger, repressing his natural sexuality, slipping on the mask of dull normality in order to maintain his career and retain his image of respectability.

He played a part and was good at it. Certainly that was more comfortable to deal with than the alternative. Admitting his sexuality, or being found out, would be suicide in the force where, even now in the nineteen eighties, you were required to wear your butchness on your sleeve.

Armitage perched on the edge of Snow’s desk, still grinning in his ghoulish fashion. ‘I don’t think your superiors would be happy to know that you are in charge of an investigation dealing with the murder of one of your old flames, would they? Or that their star detective is a limp-wristed faggot? Not good for the old career, eh?’

With a Herculean effort, Snow kept his hands below the desk, the nails sinking deeper into his flesh, desperately controlling his fury.

‘That photograph proves nothing,’ said Snow, wishing he could sound more convincing.

‘I’ll grant you that. It doesn’t prove you’re a gay boy – but it as hell as likes suggests it. And that is all that is needed. You know that.’

Snow did know that. The ‘no smoke without fire’ principle. Armitage was right. That photograph would soon set things going all right. In a close-knit community like police headquarters there were no secrets. The rumours would soon spread like a rampant disease. Then there would be the scrutiny, the whispered jokes behind his back and then to his face. Gradually a total lack of respect. Questions asked upstairs. And toe rags like Armitage would dig around for more evidence.

If they dug deep enough…

‘What are you after? What exactly do you want?’ Snow still sounded cool and in control, only allowing a trace of irritation to show in his voice.

Armitage grinned again and raised his right hand, thrusting it towards Snow’s face, rubbing the first finger and thumb together in a vigorous fashion.

‘Moolah,’ he said breathily.

So that was it. Blackmail. As simple and as sordid as that.

‘You open your wallet and I’ll keep my trap shut.’

Snow did not know what to say or how to react. He had been taken off his guard. This bizarre and threatening scenario had presented itself to him suddenly without any warning. It seemed so unreal. Here he was being threatened by a fellow policeman with exposure as a homosexual unless he coughed up with some cash. And if he did pay this pariah, how long would he be safe before another instalment was requested? He allowed his gaze to wander down to the photograph on his desk. It was slender evidence of his sexuality. Two tipsy men hugging each other. For God’s sake footballers hug and kiss each other in front of thousands of spectators every Saturday. No one suggested they were queer. He knew this was a weak argument. There he was in close intimacy with a gay man who it turned out had gang-raped other men on a regular basis. Any connection Snow had with him, even though it was over ten years ago, would be damning in the extreme. He knew that Armitage would be able to stoke the rumour bonfire with ease until the flames destroyed his reputation and his career.

He could reach over and snatch up the photograph with ease and rip it to pieces but what good would that do? No doubt Armitage had several copies stashed away. He wouldn’t be so foolish as to bring along the only one.