Brothers in Blood (25 page)

‘No,’ said Laurence with a grim smile.

‘You look the bee’s knees in that.’ The shop assistant fluttered around him like a mother hen.

Michael Armitage had to agree. He did look like the bee’s knees – whatever that really meant – in the leather jacket he had tried on. It was light tan, the colour of caramel, and had the fine, smooth, shiny texture of a baby’s bottom, not like the tough low grade stuff you got on the coats in the market. This was
proper
leather. He gazed admiringly at himself in the shop mirror and beamed. The jacket, blouson in style, made him look even bulkier than he was already, but this pleased him. His kind of women liked a bloke with a bit of meat on them.

‘It is expensive,’ the assistant was saying, ‘but one has to pay for quality. It is striking but sophisticated at the same time. It really suits you.’

My God, thought Armitage, he was working overtime on making a sale. It wasn’t necessary. He was determined to have the jacket.

‘How much is it?’

‘’Three hundred and fifty pounds,’ came the answer. It was swift and casual to underline the insignificance of such an amount to the customers of this exclusive emporium.

Armitage smiled sweetly at the little man. ‘I’ll take it.’

‘A wise choice, sir. How will you be paying?’

‘Cash,’ said Armitage, his smile broadening.

THIRTY-FIVE

Jack Turner called to the dog in vain. It took no notice of him as it lolloped off into the undergrowth. It was all very well Margaret, his wife, doting on the black Labrador puppy, but he was the poor sod who had to take it out for walks and try to make the thing obey him. He pushed his way down the narrow woodland path in pursuit of the hound until he came out into a clearing, and there before him was a large pond, murky and muddy. The dog was on the water’s edge gazing at it with great curiosity.

‘You’re not to go in there,’ cried Turner racing towards the dog. Seeing his master advancing on him at speed and thinking this was part of the walkies game, the dog splashed into the water with enthusiasm and swam out towards the middle of the pond.

Turner groaned out loud in despair. How was he going to get the mutt to come back? He threw his head to the heavens in frustration but when he looked again he saw that the dog had found something in the water and was growling and snapping at it. Eventually, the dog grabbed something from just below the surface and dragged it up into the air. Jack Turner couldn’t believe his eyes. It was the sleeve of a jacket but what chilled him to the bone was the sight of the livid white human hand dangling from the end.

Snow knew that there came a time in every investigation when things seem to fall into a torpor. After the initial flurry of activity and responses from the public, there was a dead period where everything hangs fire waiting for the big breakthrough. If it ever came.

They were just about to enter this period now with the Matt Wilkinson/Alex Marshall murder case. There had been a big response to Marshall’s picture shown on the television, most of it genuine. Inevitably there had been the usual loonies who came up with wild stories and accusations ranging from the victim being an alien to him having set fire to their Ford Fiesta in a pub car park last Bank Holiday. However, they all needed checking out, wasting valuable police time and resources in the process. In this case, apart from identifying Marshall and his place of work, there was no new information received. His work colleagues had been interviewed but all they could say was that he was a quiet chap, possibly gay and kept himself to himself.

There had been no progress with tracing the calls to Alex’s house and it was unlikely there would be. The technology was simply not in place. Meanwhile Sergeant Fellows was still waiting for the Brighton police to get back to him about the guest with the initial ‘L’ staying at the Sea Hotel in 1976. The only bright light in the gloom was the telephone number that the young chap John had passed on to Snow. Although he had been tempted to ring the number out of the blue, he knew that this would have been far too reckless. Such an action could easily tip off whoever was on the other end of the line that the police were interested in them and a speedy disappearing act would result. No, he needed an address. And so once more he had put in a request to BT for help. He handled the matter personally rather than delegating it to Bob Fellows or others. On this occasion BT had managed to come up with an address for the number.

‘Would you mind telling me where we are going?’ enquired Bob Fellows with a certain amount of irritation. He was used to his boss keeping his cards close to his chest but he usually gave him some sort of clue as to what he was about. Here they were haring up the A1 to God knows where – or precisely only Snow knew where.

Snow allowed himself a terse grin. ‘We’re headed for 12 Willows Walk, Gillesgate Moor, near Durham.’

‘Oh, that’s OK then,’ he said drly. ‘And why exactly are we going there and what do you hope to find?’

‘Not quite sure. I think I’d better explain.’

‘That would be useful, sir.’

Briefly, Snow told of his encounter with John and how he had secured the mysterious telephone number. ‘It could be something and nothing. That’s why for now I’ve not logged it.’

‘I see, sir.’ Fellows rolled his eyes. This was typical of Snow. Even if it turned out to be the phone number of the local Samaritans, he should have logged it. That was the procedure. That was the rule. Now here we were off on police business without an official reason. Snow loved to play things this way – his way. If only he didn’t include me in his little intrigues, Fellows thought.

‘But fingers crossed, sergeant, it could turn out to be the break we need.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Snow laughed. ‘I love your enthusiasm, Bob. Now if you’ll drag that map book off the back seat and work out a route for us from the motorway to Gillesgate Moor.’

Willows Walk turned out to be one of a series of similarly named streets on a modern housing estate some five miles north of Durham itself. There was Oak Avenue, Larch Crescent, Chestnut Way etc. It was a fairly smart complex, most of the houses being detached, albeit situated very close to one another. However there wasn’t a willow in sight or indeed a tree of any kind.

After a few wrong turns in the labyrinthine estate, Snow eventually pulled up outside number twelve. ‘Right, Bob, let’s see where this leads us.’

The door was opened by a pretty woman, aged around thirty with short blonde hair, intelligent blue eyes and haggard features. It was clear that she was pregnant. Snow held his identification card for her to see but before he could say a word, the woman grabbed his arm.

‘Has there been some news. Have you found him?’

‘No,’ said Snow instinctively.

The spark of hope died in the woman’s eyes and her shoulders slumped as though she had just been presented with a giant invisible burden. For a moment Snow thought she was going to faint, but then she rallied.

‘May we come in?’

Without a word, the woman stood back and allowed the two men to pass by her into the hall.

‘What is it, Sandra?’ asked a woman who emerged from the sitting room, holding a mug of tea. She was around forty with a homely face and dressed in jeans and a woollen top.

Sandra shook her head. ‘The police. They still haven’t found Russell.’

Snow was not sure how to play this, but before he had time to think any further, Sandra introduced the other woman as ‘my neighbour Joan’

Snow smiled at Joan. ‘If you don’t mind, we’d like a word alone with Sandra. Perhaps you could make us both a cup of tea, eh? Milk, no sugar.’

Joan nodded and scuttled off to the kitchen without a word.

Sandra led them into a comfortable, well-ordered lounge. Snow surveyed the room professionally, building up ideas and evidence to try and understand what had been going on here. The furniture was modern, stylish and of a reasonable quality. The house belonged to a professional couple he guessed and there they were framed on the mantelpiece, caught in gaudy colour on their wedding day. The man – Russell he assumed – had unfashionably long hair and peaky features. The grin that he wore was not his own, it was borrowed for the occasion. He certainly didn’t look comfortable having his picture taken. The woman was a slightly younger looking Sandra.

‘When did your husband disappear?’ Snow asked.

Sandra frowned heavily in response. ‘What on earth do you mean? You know all this. I’ve made a statement.’

‘You’ve made a statement to the Northumberland police no doubt. We’re from West Yorkshire.’ Snow held up his ID again.

Sandra shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘We’re here for a different reason, a different investigation. Not the one about your missing husband – but it is possible that the two cases are linked.’

Sandra shook her head in some confusion and sank into an armchair.

‘When did your husband disappear?’

‘Two days ago. He didn’t come home from school. He’s… he’s a teacher.’

‘Is this unusual?’

‘Of course it’s bloody unusual!’

‘And you have no notion where he may have gone or what has happened to him?’

‘Of course I don’t.’ Sandra was shouting now and her eyes had begun to moisten.

‘I’m sorry to upset you, but I need to get the situation clear. Does your husband know someone called Alex Marshall?’

Sandra thought for a moment. ‘Alex,’ she said softly to herself and her mind went back to a few days earlier, to that strange midnight phone call Russell made. Did she catch the name Alex? Was it her imagination? What on earth did it mean? Why was everything suddenly such a mess? Instinctively she stroked her bulging tummy and allowed her tears to fall.

Snow threw a glance at Fellows but said nothing. He knew that it was best to wait, to allow the woman to control her own emotions. Anything he said would not help matters.

At length, Sandra Blake pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and staunched the tears. ‘I’m not sure if he knew anyone called Alex or not. But if he did, I didn’t know anything about him.’

‘Did your husband have any friends in Huddersfield?’

Sandra seemed puzzled at this question. ‘He might have,’ she said slowly. ‘Old friends, I suppose. From the past. He was from Huddersfield originally. He came up to Durham to the University and stayed. Look, what is this case you’re investigating? How does it involve Russell?’

‘A man was murdered in Huddersfield and he had your husband’s telephone number. We know that on one occasion at least the victim rang this number here in the early hours of the morning.’

‘You… you think that my Russell is involved in this murder?’

‘We’d just like to find out more about his relationship…’

‘With this Alex?’

Snow nodded. ‘He could provide us with a vital clue.’

‘Well, he can’t can he, because he’s missing and no one knows where the hell he is.’ Her face flushed and the tears began again.

‘What have the police done so far about finding him?’

Sandra shrugged and her features stiffened. ‘No much as far as I can see. They took a statement and a photograph which they were going to circulate. They said that as it’s only just been over forty-eight hours, there’s still time for him to walk in through the door. They said it wasn’t unusual for men who are just on the brink of fatherhood to disappear for a few days without warning.’

Snow nodded. It did happen but it wasn’t exactly a common occurrence.

‘Did your husband have a desk, a workspace, somewhere he kept his correspondence?’

Sandra hesitated. She didn’t like the sound of this. ‘Yes,’ she said at length, ‘he used a small office at the back of the house – where did his school work – lesson preparation and stuff.’

‘May we see it?’

Snow could tell that she was going to refuse. ‘I know this may seem an imposition,’ he added swiftly, his voice soft and reasonable, ‘but it really may help in finding out what’s happened to your husband. Clearly there is a mystery here and mysteries can only be solved by investigation.’

For some moments Sandra stared ahead of Snow, her eyes focused on nothing in particular. ‘Very well,’ she said after a few moments. ‘It can’t make things worse, can it?’ She rose and led them into the hall just as Joan the neighbour came from the kitchen carrying two mugs.

‘Your tea,’ she said brightly.

‘Thank you. Later perhaps,’ said Snow as he and Fellows followed Sandra down the hall.

For a little cramped office, the room was reasonably tidy. It contained a desk, a filing cabinet, a book case and a small wardrobe. Papers were scattered across the desk and there was a pile of play copies –
Romeo and Juliet
– on the floor.

‘Thank you, Mrs Blake. If you wouldn’t mind leaving us alone for a while, we’ll be quick and tidy. There will be no mess, I promise. Just give us fifteen minutes.’

Reluctantly she withdrew without a word.

Snapping on his latex gloves, Snow began examining the contents of the desk drawers while Fellows investigated the wardrobe.

‘Here, sir, look at this,’ he said after only a few moments. He held up a train ticket. ‘A return to Huddersfield dated the day before the Wilkinson murders. It was in one of his jacket pockets.’

‘Then we’re on the right track. Good man. Keep looking.’

The filing cabinet was locked but Snow soon found the key in an empty vase on the window sill. Pulling out the drawers in turn they all seemed to be filled with school related material: test papers, lesson plans, exam schedules. One folder near the back contained Blake’s own academic certificates: his O levels, A Levels, his BA degree and his Cert Ed. Slipped in with these were a few other items. There were a couple of play bills: one for the York Theatre Royal for an Alan Ayckbourn comedy and one for the Library Theatre in Manchester for a drama Snow had never heard of before. He scrutinised these for a few moments, coming to the conclusion that the only connection between the two was an actor who appeared in both productions – an actor by the name of Laurence Dane. Laurence. Could he be the ‘L’ on the letter from Brighton? There was a kind of desperation in such a thought, but nevertheless it was possible. Snow made a mental note of the details before returning the flyers to the folder. There was one other loose item that claimed his attention: a faded photograph. It was of a burly youth astride a motorbike.