Brothers in Blood (23 page)

‘Much obliged,’ returned Laurence with as much sarcasm as he could inject into the phrase.

The school was virtually deserted as Laurence made his way as directed. A couple of spindly youths in gym kit hurried by him and an ancient lady in a blue smock was sweeping up the day’s debris, a cigarette dangling from her lower lip. She didn’t give him moment’s glance as he strolled past.

He knew that it was Russell’s habit to stay behind after school finished for a good hour in his class marking books so, as he’d told him many times, that he didn’t have to ‘take too many of the buggers home’. On reaching Room 13G, he peered through the glass panel in the door. To his dismay he saw that the room was empty.

Laurence swore softly under his breath. He felt that his old friend had let him down deliberately. His absence was some kind of treachery. Russell should be here involved in his allotted task. Indeed there was a pile of exercise books on the teacher’s desk. One of them was open and a red biro was resting on the page. It was, thought Laurence, like an academic Marie Celeste. He opened the door and entered. It was then that he observed another door at the far end of the room. It was slightly ajar. In the area beyond the door he could see shelves of textbooks. Obviously, it was some kind of the stockroom. As he approached it, he sensed movement inside. Then there was a gentle cough and a sigh and a distracted looking Russell appeared in the doorway. Laurence could see at once that he was tense and ill. His face was drawn and pale while dark shadows gave him the panda look of the serial insomniac.

Catching sight of someone in his classroom, Russell, dropped the pile of books he was carrying and his mouth opened in shock. ‘Christ,’ he said, staggering backwards. ‘You gave me a surprise.’

It was clear to Laurence that as yet his friend had not recognised him.

‘Are you wanting to see me? I’m Mr Blake, second in the English department.’

‘Oh yes, I’m wanting to see you,’ replied Laurence in his own voice.

Russell blinked and came closer, peering at his visitor. ‘Laurence?’ he said hesitantly.

Laurence grinned. ‘The very same, my good fellow,’ he intoned in the voice he used as his old countryman.

For a moment Russell forgot the worry and depression that had dogged him all day and just grinned. He was delighted to see his old friend. He felt a lightening of the spirit and, rather like a young child who had been terrified by a nightmare and was comforted by his father, he experienced the heady feeling that now everything would be all right. Laurence would know what to do. Laurence would make everything better. Instinctively, he moved forward and hugged his old friend.

‘Am I glad to see you,’ he murmured.

‘Hail fellow, well met,’ replied Laurence, pulling away from the embrace.

‘We’re in a bit of a mess, aren’t we?’ said Russell, the clouds of depression gathering once more. ‘This Alex business. What on earth possessed him…?’

Laurence gave a casual shrug. ‘I’m sure he thought was he was doing what was for the best… for all of us.’

‘The stupid bastard. You saw that picture. The one they paraded on the telly. He’s probably in police custody already.’

Laurence shook his head. ‘Oh, no he isn’t. I can guarantee you of that.’

‘What do you mean?’ Fear gripped Russell’s heart. There was something in Laurence’s tone that gave him the answer already. There could be only one answer. ‘What… You don’t…’

Laurence gave him a wan smile. ‘He had to be silenced didn’t he?’

‘Silenced.’

Laurence nodded. ‘The link had to be severed and quickly. There was no time for soul searching.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think you know what I mean.’

‘You … killed him?’ Russell could hardly believe that he had uttered these words.

‘Yes.’

Russell felt his body turn to ice. He shook his head vigorously as though to dislodge this terrible notion. ‘But… he was our friend. Our Brother.’

‘Our dangerous brother. He’d become too much of a threat to our safety I’m afraid.’

‘My God.’ Russell slumped down onto one of the desk chairs, his face drained of all colour.

‘You knew from the start that we had to protect our anonymity whatever happens. With Alex identified as the killer of Ronnie Fraser, our liaison and past deeds were open to exposure. Coppers are clever these days – they can do much more than just put two and two together. It wouldn’t take long before they were knocking on our doors.’

‘That still could happen.’

‘Absolutely. Which is why I’ve come to see you. Certain things need to be set in place in order to protect ourselves. To secure our safety. But I’m afraid that in order for us to survive… we shall have to sever our relationship forever. With Alex’s death we have reached the end of the road: the end of the Brotherhood.’

Russell couldn’t think straight. He felt as though he was in some dark Monty Python sketch. Here he was in a school room, a teacher sitting at a pupil’s desk talking to a man wearing a false moustache about the murder of a friend and the end of a sixteen year friendship. It was bizarre and surreal.

‘Look, we can’t talk here, it’s too public,’ said Laurence in an attempt to rally his friend. ‘I’ve a car outside. Let’s go for a run to a private spot I’ve found where I can outline my plan and we can say our final goodbyes properly.’ Laurence reached over and took hold of Russell’s sleeve and gently hauled him to his feet. He was too dazed to resist.

The car pulled off the road and veered down a rough wooded track for a few hundred yards before the foliage began scraping against the side of the car. And then Laurence brought it to a halt.

‘Where are we?’ asked Russell, still feeling somewhat disorientated. He hadn’t really come terms with the fact that Laurence had murdered their friend. Things didn’t seem real to him any more.

‘Just a country spot. Let’s go for a walk.’ He was out of the car before Russell could respond. Slowly, he hauled himself from his seat and then made an effort to catch up with Laurence who was already several yards away.

‘Why are we here?’

‘I want to explain my plan to you in detail. It’s a little complicated but I reckon it will leave us completely in the clear.’ He paused and smiled. ‘And it’s rather a pleasant place to say goodbye and dissolve the Brotherhood forever,’ murmured Laurence, snatching up a twig and beating a crop of nettles with it. ‘You know how sentimental I am. Further down here we come across a large pond. Very gothic, fairy tale-like. Appropriate.’

‘Appropriate?’

‘Yes. We’ve been living an enchanted gothic fairy tale life haven’t we? Ever since we clubbed old Mother Black’s dog to death. All those years ago. Remember – when you and I were sweet seventeen. I say all those years ago but really it was only yesterday. It has all happened in a trice, the winking of a malevolent eye. During that time we entertained ourselves, we fought off the morphine of boredom by killing other creatures, other pointless souls. We saved them from the slings and arrows that we still endure. We were doing them a favour. But now, sadly, it has to end.’

‘I see that. And it makes me sad, too. Sad that I shall not see you again. I love you, you see. Not in queer way. That would be trivial. I love you as a kindred spirit. As a real brother. You’ve been a rock for me. I’ve never been strong. I needed someone like you in my life. You gave it shape and purpose.’

‘Touching sentiments, old boy. I will miss you, too. My dear dependable Russ. But all good things must come to an end.’ Laurence bent down and picked up a small stone. He threw it high into the air and watched it as it curved and fell with a gentle plop in into the scummed surface of the pond.

‘You said that there were things we should do…’ said Russell quietly, moving to the edge of the pond and staring at the dark waters as though they would provide an answer to his worries.

‘Indeed. Even with Alex no longer with us there are still tentative links between us. Who knows what clues we’ve left over the years, casual careless overheard comments, appearances together that could eventually expose our relationship… and the rest.’

For a moment Russell remembered the journal. Bugger, he’d forgotten about it. He must –
must
destroy it when he got home. Guilt pierced his heart. He had been stupid to keep the thing – to write it in the first place. He turned his back on Laurence so his friend wouldn’t see his pained expression.

‘I don’t see how there is anything that we can do about that now,’ he said awkwardly.

‘
Nil desperandum
,
mon ami
,’ said Laurence as bent down and picked up another stone. A much larger one this time. ‘There’s always a solution. A way out. Trust your Uncle Laurence,’ he added and then as a thin smile touched his lips, he brought the stone down on the back of Russell’s head with as much force as he could.

Russell gave out a sharp cry of pain and eyes wide with shock sank to his knees. Laurence struck him again. And again. And again.

And again.

Russell was now slumped down by the water’s edge, his dead eyes staring balefully at the reeds rustling in the early evening breeze. Laurence knelt down by him and raising the stone brought it down once more on to what remained of Russell’s skull. The back of his head was now the colour and consistency of raspberry jam.

Just like Old Mother Black’s terrier. There was a fitting unity to the act. The Great Game had come full circle.

‘Goodbye,’ he crowed, throwing his head back to the shifting branches above him. ‘Goodbye, my old friend.’ There were tears in his eyes.

Laurence remained motionless for some moments before he dragged the body into the shallows and then launched it out into the pool. He watched as the corpse floated away from the shore for a few seconds and then sank slowly beneath the sooty surface.

‘You see, Russell, old friend, this was how it was meant to be. This is how I planned it, all those years ago. This is why I took you under my wing. To nurture you as my final victim. I knew one day, my dear Russell, that I would end your life. That was part of the game. The cunning, ruthless game. My game. It was no fun otherwise. I created the Brotherhood and now I have destroyed it. Good night sweet prince, blah, blah fucking blah.’

With an angry gesture he scooped up a handful of pebbles and flung them into the pond.

THIRTY-THREE

That same morning, Paul Snow overslept – a rare occurrence for him. It was, he thought, a subconscious response to the events of the previous day. He had no desire to wake up to the realisation that he was a victim of blackmail. As he downed an extra strong coffee while hurriedly getting dressed, he determined that he should shove this particular problem to the back of his mind. While he was sensible enough to accept that it wouldn’t go away of its own accord, he knew that there was nothing practical he could do about it at present and there were other pressing concerns he had to deal with.

Despite his desperate efforts to catch up the time by driving like a mad thing on his journey to police HQ, he arrived after most of his team were already at their posts. Somewhat sheepishly he made his way to his office, asking Bob Fellows to join him. As he did so, he caught sight of Michael Armitage grinning maliciously in his direction. The lips may have given the impression of joviality, but the eyes registered a sneering malevolence. It was a clear message that the mischief was far from over. It only confirmed what Snow already suspected: from now on Armitage would loom like a dark spider at the corner of his life. Something must be done.

‘Bastard,’ murmured Snow under his breath as ushered in his sergeant and closed the door behind him.

‘What was that, Sir?’ said Fellows.

Snow shook his head distractedly. ‘Nothing, nothing. Ignore me. I’m a little disorientated this morning.’

Fellows thought it best to say nothing in response.

‘Right,’ said Snow, sitting behind his desk, ‘I’ve a few tasks for you to attend to. First of all pass this box on to forensics. I’ve got what I can out of it. Let’s see if they can do any better.’ He handed over the tin box that he’d brought with him from home, carefully wrapped in anonymous brown paper.

‘And then I want you to follow up a couple of frail leads.’

‘Frail leads are my speciality,’ said Fellows, with irony.

Snow ignored the levity. ‘Get on to the Brighton police. I’d like them to check if there was a guest staying at the Brighton Sea Hotel on 6 August 1976 with a name, probably a first name that begins with L. See if they can come up with the info.’

Fellows groaned. ‘That is a mighty frail one, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir. That was eight years ago.’

‘I know, I know. But when you have little to play with, you play with the little you’ve got.’

‘Where d’you get that piece of crap wisdom from, sir?’

‘Out of a cracker, I shouldn’t wonder. Just do it, eh?’

‘Anything else?’

‘Get on to BT. See if they can give us the details of any incoming or outgoing calls that Alex Marshall received on the day he died.’

‘Phone numbers?’

‘If possible.’

‘That’s a big stretch, sir. You know that could take for ever unless it’s a London exchange. The technology’s a bit basic up in this neck of the woods.’

‘I know it is but that doesn’t mean we don’t try.’

‘OK.’ His response was without much enthusiasm, but Fellows was used to Snow’s wild goose chases and he had to admit that on rare occasions they did actually manage to corner a wild goose.

‘In the meantime, I think I’ll take myself out to Marshall’s house again. Another visit might very well reveal a little more.’

‘You going on your own, sir?’

‘I think it would be best.’

There is something about a house in which a murder has taken place that announces itself to the sensitive. Or at least that’s what Snow thought. As he let himself inside Alex Marshall’s neat little townhouse, he could still smell the blood and the faint aroma of dead body. There was a special kind of silence, too, which was strange and unique. He was tempted to make a noise to break that suffocating blanket of quiet, but something prevented him. It would be like shouting in church, he thought.