Innocent Blood (10 page)

He cut to the chase. ‘Where did the man go?’ he asked sharply.

Without a word, all three pointed to the side door, which was slightly ajar. Hargreaves discovered that it led to a small yard and from there freedom for his quarry.

‘Bollocks,’ he hissed in frustration.

The man had escaped.

In fact, in truth, he had allowed the man to escape. That was the truth of the matter. What chance had he now to curtail his days of feet-pounding on the beat? He swore violently under his breath, before returning to the kitchen where he discovered the trio had resumed their conversation. Business was obviously slow and their curiosity level was zero. They did not give him a cursory glance as he pushed past them and through into the restaurant.

With a heavy heart, the policeman returned to the abandoned vehicle while radioing HQ to give them a brief resumé about what had happened. Without bending the truth, he lessened the elements of what he considered was his incompetence. However, he realised with a leaden heart that anyone scrutinising the basic outline of events could see that he had been found wanting.

Slipping the keys from the ignition, PC Hargreaves moved to the back of the van and unlocked the doors. The interior was empty apart from a pile of sacking at the far end. Hargreaves clambered inside and examined this. His stomach churned and he felt his bile rise when he pulled back the roll of sacking. It revealed the body of a young Asian girl beneath. She was bound and gagged and lay in a foetal position. He felt for a pulse. There wasn’t one.

The full implication of the situation made PC Hargreaves cry out in anguish. The girl was dead and he had just allowed her murderer to escape.

Snow allowed the steaming hot coffee to burn the back of his throat. The discomfort was somehow satisfying. It was early the following morning and he was reading PC Hargreaves’ report. Already the staff at the Huddersfield Hotel had been interviewed, but it seemed to Snow that they were not only blind and deaf but also in some way brain-damaged. None of them could give any details as to the appearance of the man who ran through the premises in a frantic manner. Each one seemed to have encountered a different fellow who was able to change his shape from tall to short and well-built to thin, and the jury was out as to his age and colouring. Even Hargreaves himself wasn’t much better, using terms like ‘shadowy figure’, ‘believed to have a beard’, ‘shabby clothing’ and ‘average height and build’.

And the little girl was dead.

She had been killed in the same manner as the other two. She had been chloroformed and then strangled. No doubt the killer was on his way to some lonely beauty spot to dump her body when the van had given up the ghost. Hargreaves had been so close to bringing this case to an end. So close, but … what did the Americans say? No cigar.

Snow sighed. Fate had a way of rubbing one’s face in the mud now and then. Actually not that infrequently: most of the time really.

The van was being picked over by forensics and you never knew, there might be some clue as to the identity of this bastard who was killing little girls. Sadly, Snow felt he did know – he knew they wouldn’t find anything of real significance because this fellow was clever and meticulous. And, more importantly, it was clear to Snow that he was fully focused on his murderous occupation. Nothing else mattered to him. His mind was tuned into this channel only and protecting his identity was one of the key elements of his operations.

Another mouthful of hot coffee. Snow wasn’t usually this pessimistic but there was something about this case that had robbed him of any sanguinity. He was also suffering from the burden of guilt that he felt for not catching this bastard. Logically, he could not have saved the first girl, but now there were two other corpses and realistically they were no nearer catching the killer than they had been on day one. And, for Christ’s sake, he was the senior investigating officer. The buck really stopped with him.

At least now he had a thread with which to link the murders. All three girls had been members of the Marsdale Choir and had survived the crash on the moors. For some reason the killer was picking off these girls. There were two survivors left: Elizabeth Saunders and Teresa Duff. They were now in danger. Great danger, because the killer would be very spooked by his close call and realise how vulnerable his position had become. Also he would know that by now the police would have worked out the connection between each of the murdered girls and would be able to put measures in place to protect the two potential victims. As a result he’d want to get the job – his mission – over with as quickly as possible. And Snow felt it was a mission. Something was driving this man to kill these girls as though he wanted to obliterate all of the choir. He was carrying out the task with almost religious zeal. And Snow was sure that the remaining two surviving girls were to be his next targets.

He had organised for surveillance on the girls’ homes and female police officers to accompany them to school. Pictures of the van had appeared on the television news with the hope that some viewers would recognise the vehicle and contact the police. Someone must know where the bastard was hanging out.

Despite everything, it was still a waiting game.

What really haunted and frustrated Snow was the mystery of this man’s motives. Why did he want to kill perfectly innocent girls? It was like he was desperate to eradicate all traces of the choir, as though it had never existed. For what reason? The choir was the link but why? He drained his coffee mug and grimaced. In this case it wasn’t just a matter of thinking out of the box, it was eliminating the box altogether.

Amos Rawcliffe struggled vainly with the recalcitrant door of the telephone box. ‘Bloody hell,’ he wheezed in panting frustration. ‘Don’t they bloody well want you to make a frigging phone call?’

A fine rain was falling and the weather was unseasonably cold. Amos was all about ready to give up trying to get into the phone box when the door finally gave a little on its stiff over-painted hinges and he was able to squeeze himself through the gap. He virtually fell inside, slumping against the side of the tiny receptacle.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said again when he had recovered enough breath to speak. Why on earth had he believed that this was a good idea, he thought. God only knows. Instinctively he gazed heavenwards. ‘Don’t you?’ he said, addressing the invisible almighty. ‘And when I’m done are you going to let me get out of this frigging goldfish bowl?’

After a few moments, Amos pulled himself upright and mopped his brow, which despite the cold was dappled with sweat. He searched in his pockets for the scrap of paper on which he’d written down the number. After a while, he retrieved it but then realised that he couldn’t read his own spidery seventy-five-year-old handwriting without the aid of his spectacles.

‘Frigging hell,’ he moaned again as he rummaged inside his variety of jacket pockets in search of his reading glasses. As he placed them on his nose, they steamed up, misting his vision. This prompted another oath.

The atmosphere inside the phone box was rank. Amos thought of it as a mixture of cat wee, dog shit and sweat, and now the small panes of glass were all steamed up so that he really felt he was in some noxious cell, forever trapped in this foul-smelling coffin.

‘Let’s get the bloody thing over with,’ he said as he lifted the receiver and dialled.

‘Hello, hello,’ he said imperiously when the call was answered at the other end. ‘It’s about that thing in the paper. That thing about the van you’ve been after. I know where it came from. I know who owns it. You want to know, don’t you? This is the police I’m talking to, isn’t it?’

Paul Snow and Bob Fellows sat tentatively on the edge of the settee in Amos Rawcliffe’s sitting room. To Snow’s mind, the place had probably not seen a tidy, a vacuum cleaner or a duster since the war. How could anyone live in such chaos? Looking over at old Amos, sitting back in the shabbiest armchair he had ever encountered, cradling a cup and saucer in his lap, it was obvious that this ragged old fellow could. In fact not only did he seem quite content in his surroundings, but he appeared completely oblivious of the squalor that surrounded him. He slurped his tea contentedly. Snow and Fellows had not been offered refreshment, which to Snow was a relief. Who knew exactly what the old man was drinking and how long it had been lurking in the kitchen?

‘He called himself John Hall,’ Rawcliffe continued, ‘and paid me ten pounds a week for the use of the land to park his caravan on it. He was no bother but I thought there was something shifty about him. I was a school caretaker in my time and I came across a lot of wrong ’uns in them days. I prided myself in being able to spot ’em. Little bastards with mischief on their mind. I felt a bit the same about him, this John Hall. He never quite looked me in the face. Avoided my glances. Still I never questioned where he’d come from or why he’d landed up here. None of my business as long as he paid up regularly, which he did.’

‘Can you describe him? What did he look like?’ asked Snow.

Rawcliffe screwed up his face in an act of recollection. ‘He was a sturdy bloke, not fat, just sturdy. In his fifties, I should guess. He had a beard and longish hair and sometimes he wore glasses – those big horn-rimmed things.’ He paused and screwed his face up further. ‘He was from round here, I reckon. You could tell that by his accent. There was really nowt special about him. You’d pass him in the street and not notice him.’

‘How long ago did he come here?’

‘Oh, about two, three months maybe. To be honest, I didn’t see much of him, but I made it a point to go round every Thursday night for the rent and I’d inspect the place to see everything was OK, like. You can see the caravan from that window over there. It’s parked on that patch of ground just beyond the wall. It was my allotment once upon a time when my Cheryl was alive and me legs worked properly. It’s been idle for eight years or more. When this Hall chap came and asked if he could park there, I thought why not? Forty quid a month will do me very nicely.’

Instinctively the two men rose and moved to the window and gazed out. As described, just beyond the old stone garden wall was the rusting caravan.

‘I’ve not seen him for a couple of days now. His van’s not been parked up since Tuesday. I reckon he’s done a bunk.’

‘I reckon you’re right,’ muttered Bob Fellows, more to himself than to Rawcliffe.

Snow nodded at his colleague. It was clear that the old fellow was not a crank and it was possible that this was a serious lead. ‘We’d better get the SOCOs up here pronto,’ he said. ‘They should be able to come up with something to help us trace him.’

‘What’s he done? Why are you after him?’ asked Rawcliffe, a touch of fear in his voice.

‘Nothing that need bother you at the moment,’ said Snow, not unkindly. ‘But I must ask you not to venture into the caravan till our boys have had a chance to inspect it. OK?’

Rawcliffe nodded, his eyes wide with apprehension. ‘I knew he were a wrong ’un.’

Once outside the little cottage, Snow wandered to the garden wall and gazed at the old caravan. What secrets did it hold? Would something inside lead them to the killer? It was very tempting to clamber over the wall and have a look inside but he knew such an action was against the rules. He would be contaminating what was possibly a crime scene. He would just have to be patient.

Mrs Eva Hodge could not afford to be fussy regarding her ‘paying guests’, as she referred to her lodgers, for she knew her ‘facilities’ were of the basic quality. A small room with bed, cheap wardrobe, chest of drawers and the use of a communal bathroom and toilet. However, as she gazed at the man on her doorstep she was indeed tempted to be fussy. He was scruffy and somewhat dishevelled with the minimum of luggage – this was usual with her transient customers, fellows living on the edge of solvency – but there was something rather chilling in his demeanour and in particular in those pale watery eyes, which, as they gazed at her, seemed to be seeing something else, something beyond her. His voice was low and rasping, almost a whisper, as though he was unused to speaking. She wondered if he was an ex-con.

‘How long are you wanting to stay?’ Eva Hodge asked.

The man shrugged. ‘A couple of weeks, I guess,’ he said and held up a clutch of pound notes. ‘That should cover it?’ he said.

At the sight of the money, Mrs Hodges’ growing resolve to refuse him melted away. ‘I don’t allow visitors or cooking in the rooms,’ she said, her hand snaking out to lift the money from the man’s hand.

The man nodded and edged forward into the hallway.

In many ways, Paul Snow was a creature of habit. There were certain routines built into his life which he adhered to whenever possible. Sometimes the dictates of his job meant he had to alter or adjust these routines and this caused him some dismay. He had long adopted the habit of carrying out his weekly shop at Lodges supermarket in Birkby early on Thursday morning before he went into work. He hated shopping for groceries and household items and he made sure that he bought all he needed for the next seven days with one visit. There was no dilly-dallying down the aisles for him, checking the relative prices of goods. He got in there, bought his stuff and left. And that’s what he intended to do on this occasion until a hand fell on his shoulder by the meat counter.

‘I can recommend the apple and pork sausages. They’re particularly tasty,’ said a voice in his ear, which broke in on his focused concentration.

Snow turned awkwardly to find himself facing Colin Bird. Playfully Bird rammed Snow’s trolley with his. ‘Snap,’ he grinned.

‘Hello,’ said Snow, a little nonplussed to see Bird in this unusual environment.

‘Do you come here often?’ quipped Bird.

Snow smiled. ‘Not if I can help it,’ he said.

‘Bugger, isn’t it, shopping for one?’

Snow nodded. ‘Shopping, full stop.’

‘You nearly done?’

Snow gazed at his trolley. ‘Sort of. Just one or two more things …’

‘What say I treat you to a coffee in the little cafe. See you there in ten minutes, eh? Good man.’