Brothers in Blood (29 page)

How clever.

How sick.

And now Blake and Marshall themselves had been killed. Either there was a fourth mysterious figure in the game, or Laurence Barker/Dane was his man.

Surely?

When he finally returned to the railway station, he had achieved his goal, after a fashion. He held in his mind a picture of events as he imagined them. It was, he thought with a tight smile, his Picasso canvas: it was clear, dramatic and complete if a little incredible and bizarre but he was not sure it would make sense to many people. Still it was something and it gave him a course of action to pursue.

It was just after 3 p.m. when he arrived back at his office and before he had time to sit at his desk, there was a brusque tap at his door and Michael Armitage entered. Snow’s heart sank. What now? he thought.

‘There’s been a murder in town,’ Armitage announced without ceremony. ‘An alkie has been beaten to death.

Snow nodded and waited for Armitage to continue.

‘I’d like to handle the case. It’s time I had a crack at being in charge of an investigation. With your recommendation, I could act up. We’re stretched as it is and it would be a good way of easing things. I want you to get me this.’

There was a strange vulnerable desperation in Armitage’s demeanour.

‘What makes you think I can do this… even if I wanted to?’

Suddenly Armitage’s stance changed and with it his mood. ‘You can… and you will,’ he intoned. The warning was implicit in his tone.

‘So this is another of your threats is it?’

‘You can do it for me. I deserve it.’ Surprisingly there was almost a pleading note in Armitage’s voice.

‘I probably could do it, but you certainly don’t deserve it,’ said Snow with deliberate slowness. He was not about to list the various reasons – such as Armitage’s laziness, his slovenly attitude to detail and his lack of real intelligence – why he would never recommend Michael Armitage for any kind of promotion or position of real responsibility. He would never recommend him under normal circumstances, that is. But these were not ‘normal circumstances’ and if he needed confirming evidence of this fact he only had to look at the man’s countenance. His features now had darkened, the jaw line tightened and the eyes suddenly blazed with anger.

‘I don’t think you’ve a choice in the matter, sweetie. I say you do it and by hell, you do it.’

‘Or else?’

Armitage nodded. ‘Or else.’

‘Leave it with me.’

Armitage was about to say something in reply but he refrained. He gave Snow a sarcastic grin, a grin of triumph. ‘Don’t leave it too long…sweetie,’ he growled before making a swift exit.

Snow did not stir from his chair. His only movement was the clenching of his hands on the desk top. This would go on until the crack of doom, he told himself.

But no… it couldn’t go on. Something must be done.

Something.

But what?

FORTY

A couple of weeks later, Snow sat with a can of lager watching the television. Well, at least he was seated before the box and it was on. His eyes scanned the pictures before him but his mind was elsewhere. It was mired in the dilemma of what to do about Michael Armitage. Slipping him some cash on demand was one thing but pushing the bastard up the promotion ladder was another.

He groaned and took a large swig from the can of lager. As he did so, his eyes caught something on the television screen. It was the cast list of
Emmerdale Farm
, the programme that he had not been watching.

There it was. The name: Laurence Dane. He had been playing a character called Sebastian Barnes. Before he knew it, there was the Yorkshire Television logo and the adverts had started, ‘Now hands that do dishes can feel soft as your face…’

Snow switched off the set and reached for the
TV Times
. He checked the cast list of
Emmerdale Farm
. There it was:

Sebastian Barnes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Laurence Dane

He flicked through the pages of the magazine and found the next episode of the soap opera with a little picture of ‘Sebastian Barnes posing a threat to Sophie Warren’.

Sebastian Barnes was tall, thin, good looking in an arrogant sort of way and he seemed to do menacing very well.

This – or rather he – was the missing piece in the puzzle.

FORTY-ONE

Snow was about to leave the house the following morning when the telephone rang. He stared at it jangling on the hall table as though it was an unexploded bomb. He rarely received calls at home and when he did, they tended to be unpleasant ones connected with work. His day was planned and he didn’t want those plans disrupted by demands on his time. He was sorely tempted not to answer the thing. Five minutes later and he would have been out of the house anyway.

The more he stared with the squat plastic casing, the louder the ringing seemed to get. His curiosity and his professionalism got the better of him and with reluctance he picked up the receiver.

As soon as he heard the voice at the other end, he wished that he hadn’t.

‘I hope I didn’t get you out of bed, sir.’

It was Michael Armitage.

‘What do you want?’

‘Just a little reminder about the conversation we had yesterday. I expect you to take action soon. Very soon … or things could take a nasty turn.’

‘Indeed they could,’ said Snow replacing the receiver.

When he arrived at his office, there was a package waiting for him on his desk. ‘What’s all this about?’ he asked Bob Fellows.

‘Search me, sir. It arrived by special delivery this morning.’

Snow gazed at it suspiciously. It was addressed to him marked personal and private. As he reached out to pick it up, his telephone rang with a ferocity that made him jump. Annoyed at himself, he grabbed the receiver. ‘Snow,’ he barked, more officiously than he’d meant to.

‘Blimey, you got out of the bed the wrong side of the bed this morning, didn’t you, lad?’

It was Inspector Ray (Dinosaur) Daniels.

Snow ignored the taunt. ‘Morning, what can I do for you, Ray?’

‘It’s more what I’ve done for you. Has it arrived?’

‘What?’

‘The little present I sent you?’

Snow gazed at the package on his desk. ‘Well, yes I reckon it has. What is it?’

Daniels gave a throaty chuckle. ‘My special gift to you. You’ll think Christmas has come early.’

‘I’m not good at riddles this early in the morning.’

‘After our little chat over a pint the other day, I got to thinking about your case and Russell Blake’s murder. So I went back to his house to have another shufty round to see if I could find anything that might throw a bit more light on matters. Found bugger all. That is until I had a look in the garage. Up in the rafters – crafty sod – in a metal tool box, I found it.’

‘Found what?’

Another laugh. ‘You’ve not opened it then?’

‘No.’

‘Well go on. Enjoy. I reckon it’ll be a real boon to your investigation. I don’t want to act on it myself. I retire in two months time and I’m not after doing anything strenuous, following up leads and the like to trouble me in my last days on the beat. I reckon you’ll do a grand job of chasing things up. Best of luck.’

The line went dead.

Snow made himself a coffee and shut himself away in his office alone with the package. Pulling back the copious wrapping he revealed a note book with a stiff cardboard cover. Snow placed the book on the desk, opened it, took a sip of coffee and then began reading.

Laurence had just finished the brief scene and was about to make his way back to his dressing room when the director, Ted Torrance took him to one side.

‘Bad news, I’m afraid. The powers that be have decided to axe your character as originally planned in a few weeks time. It’s their thinking that a sharp-suited, smooth-talking villain would be out of place in a rural setting. I think they’re wrong… but…’

Laurence nodded. It came neither as a great surprise nor a great disappointment. He had enjoyed himself on the soap but he could see that it proffered many dangers. It was a fur-lined rut, a place where real acting disappeared and one just adopted the reactions of your permanent alter-ego in repetitious scenes. In many ways you became your character, merging your personality with them, and so in the end no acting skills were required because, in essence, you were playing a version of yourself. It was a conveyor belt for thespians with limited vision or a pension scheme for the older hacks. This was not for him. As a rung up the ladder to more satisfying and financially rewarding work it was fine, but as a long term arrangement… well for him it had all the charm of a spell in Wormwood Scrubs.

‘You’ll be told officially, but I thought you’d like to know as soon as poss.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Then you can make plans.’

Laurence squeezed Torrance’s arm. ‘I appreciate that, mate. Thanks.’

The director nodded, gave a tight smile and wandered off on to the set. Laurence made his way back to his tiny dressing room. He didn’t quite know how he felt. Relieved that he hadn’t been given an option to stay on the soap but annoyed that it wasn’t him who had made the decision to leave. He liked to be in control of his own destiny.

As he passed down the narrow corridor towards his dressing room, one of the production assistants, a girl young enough to be still at school, with the standard prop clip board in hand, stopped him. ‘Hi Laurence, you’ve got a visitor in your dressing room.’

Laurence found his visitor, a thin-faced solemn looking man somewhere in his mid-thirties, sitting casually on one the chairs in the little cell that was grandly referred to as ‘his dressing room.’ He rose when Laurence entered.

‘Mr Dane?’

‘That’s me.’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Snow of the West Yorkshire Police.’

Laurence knew then, knew with a fierce crystal clarity, he knew. He knew that this was the beginning of the end.

‘And I thought I’d paid my television licence.’

He sat down and took a packet of small cigars from his pocket. ‘Would you care for one?’

Snow shook his head. ‘No thank you.’

‘Not on duty, eh?’ Laurence lit up and blew the smoke over his shoulder. ‘So what’s all this about?’

‘Well, let me say at the outset, that I know. I know everything. I know about “The Brotherhood”.’

His eyes were steady and cool, unwavering in their stare and Laurence believed him. Other words were not necessary. This man really did know. He could tell that this was not a bluff based on half-formed ideas and guess work. How he had found out, he couldn’t fathom. But he had.

He took a long drag on the cigar. Well, charades had to be played.

‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. You’d better explain,’ said Laurence smoothly, a gentle smile curling his lips.

‘Well let’s start with your friends Russell Blake and Alex Marshall and what you three did to Matt Wilkinson, Ronnie Fraser and Dave Johnson the night you visited Wilkinson’s house.

Laurence shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Then to protect yourself,’ continued Snow, ‘you murdered your two friends, Russell and Alex.’

Laurence laughed and regretted it immediately. It was too theatrical a laugh to be convincing. It was the laugh of denial that a pantomime villain makes. He was a better actor than that and he should have known.

‘But you have killed before, haven’t you? Several times no doubt. What about Darren Rhodes?’

‘Indeed, what about Darren Rhodes? Who he?’

Snow sat down again and leaned back in his chair. ‘I think the time for play acting is over.’

‘It’s what I do for a living, Inspector. Aren’t you a fan of
Emmerdale Farm
?’

‘I don’t profess to know the full details of your criminal career. I know how it started – the kidnap and killing of Old Mother Black’s dog, but I can make informed assumptions and I’m sure you’ll tell me the rest.’

At the mention of Old Mother Black’s dog, Laurence’s face paled, and his eyes widened in surprise. ‘I’m afraid I really don’t know what you are talking about,’ he said but the smooth bluster had faded from his voice.

‘Russell Blake began a journal all those years ago when you first met at Greenbank College… it has recently come into my possession. It makes fascinating reading.’

Laurence opened his mouth to say something but no words came out.

‘It’s over, Laurence. You’ve run out of luck.’

‘You’re still not making sense, Inspector. What have the juvenile ramblings of an old school friend of mine got to do with these murders?’

‘You are going to tell me. I want to know. I’ve tracked you down but for the life in me, I don’t understand you. I’d like to give you a chance to explain.’

Laurence gave a sneer. ‘To confess, you mean. To talk my way into a prison cell for life.’

‘To explain. I’m here on my own aren’t I? No note-taking sergeant in tow. No tape recorder. Just a private conversation. To clarify matters. I am intrigued.’

‘You are mad.’

‘It’s possible,’ said Snow, aware that he was about to take that dangerous and crazy pathway he had contemplated.

Laurence narrowed his eyes and scrutinised this strange policeman. ‘What are you after?’

‘The truth.’

Laurence grinned. ‘Ah, what was it old Keats said: ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty – that is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know.’

‘This is just between ourselves.’

The words lingered in the air for some moments.

Laurence reached over to a small cupboard and extracted a bottle of whisky and a couple of mugs.

‘Will you join me?’ he said, uncorking the bottle.

Snow nodded, aware that he was on the verge of getting what he wanted.

Laurence splashed very generous measures into the mugs and handed one to Snow. ‘Well,’ he said slowly. ‘Where to start… Oh, yes… Well, Inspector, are you sitting comfortably. Then I’ll begin. It’s all about a grand game.’

It was a bloody tale. And Laurence recounted it with a gripping conciseness, while still managing to keep in the important and the gory details.