Innocent Blood (15 page)

‘I don’t take rejection well, Paul. Not well at all,’ said Bird, making for the door.

‘It’s not rejection … it’s just that you’re misreading the signs.’

‘That’s fucking rubbish and you know it. You might fool yourself but you don’t fool me. This isn’t over yet, I can tell you.’ He walked out of the room, slamming the door.

Snow slumped down on to the sofa. He was emotionally drained and deeply depressed. ‘Oh, Lord,’ he murmured to himself, ‘what the hell’s going to happen now?’ He let his head fall into his hands, the palms blanking his vision. He stayed like that for nearly ten minutes without moving. Eventually, he rose somewhat mechanically and made his way into the kitchen. Extracting a bottle of whisky from one of the cupboards, he poured himself a large one. As he took a gulp, he remembered what his father used to say when he had an occasional nip: ‘For medicinal purposes only, you realise.’ He smiled at the memory and uttered the words aloud to himself. Well, he thought, as he took another drink, he hoped that it would act as an effective sleeping draught yet again. After the day he’d had, he desperately needed a good night’s sleep.

Dawn was just asserting itself in the leaden skies over Huddersfield as Frank Hirst shuffled wearily into a greasy spoon up by the bus station. He was depressed and very hungry. He ordered a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich from the bleary-eyed girl serving. She wasn’t fully awake yet and was functioning on automatic pilot. It was lucky for Hirst that she was, for she hardly gave him a glance as she attended to his order in clumsy silence.

Moving to a table near the door, Hirst took a satisfying gulp of the scalding tea. Its ferocity helped to shake off some of the malaise that had settled upon him through lack of sleep and worry. Then came the delight of the bacon sandwich, enhanced by a blob of brown sauce squeezed with a farting noise from a plastic container.

The previous occupant of the table had left a morning newspaper behind and Hirst, almost out of a sense of habit, pulled it towards him and began idly to turn the pages while he continued to chew on the bacon sandwich. He froze mid-bite when his eyes fell upon a picture on one of the inside pages. It was a photograph of a face well known to him. It was his own. The text was short and to the point. This man was wanted by the police to help them with their enquiries. He was not to be approached as he could be dangerous. There was a dedicated telephone number to ring to report any sightings.

Instinctively Hirst gazed round him, eyeing the other customers in the café to see if they were about to point a finger at him or rush out to the nearest phone box and ring that dedicated number. There were four other customers, each sitting on their own, each hunched up over their mugs of tea or coffee, each lost in their own morning thoughts. It was zombie-land.

Hirst returned his scrutiny to the picture once more. Here he was in the good old days. Bright-eyed, clean shaven, short tidy hair, wearing a collar and tie. A million miles from the wreck that he now was. Hair over his ears, a grey straggly beard, grubby features, sallow skin, and wearing a greasy anorak. He was a different person. Both outside and in.

However, the photograph in the paper confirmed that now the police had put the pieces of the puzzle together and they knew who he was and what he was about. They were closing in on him with a rapidity that unnerved him. There was absolutely no time to lose. He still had two tasks to complete. He would, he realised, have to be more reckless now than ever. And if that meant others got hurt in the process – so be it.

‘Come on, love, get your breakfast eaten before it goes cold.’ Mrs Hargreaves stood behind her son and placed her hands on his shoulders, giving them a gentle, affectionate shake.

‘I’m not really hungry, Mum,’ he said.

‘Oh, come on now, Alan, you’re not still dwelling on that bloke what got away, are you?’

PC Alan Hargreaves swivelled around in his chair to face his mother, his features clouded with misery. ‘It was my fault he escaped. What kind of a copper am I if I let a bloody child-killer get away? You can imagine what they’re saying about me down at HQ.’

‘No, I can’t and neither can you. If they’re decent folk they’ll know you did your best.’

‘Yeah and my best isn’t good enough.’

‘Nonsense. You were bright enough to spot the van in the first place. If it wasn’t for you they wouldn’t have that as evidence. You don’t know what kind of help that might be to them. And that’s all because of you.’

Hargreaves did not reply but looked far from convinced by his mother’s argument.

‘Now come on, Alan, get that breakfast down you. You don’t want to be feeling faint when you’re on the road, do you? You’re in a patrol car today, aren’t you?

Alan Hargreaves nodded, turned reluctantly and in a desultory fashion began to eat his bacon and egg.

It was while he was cleaning his teeth that the idea came to him. It formed quickly and he resolved to act upon it. Since his failure to apprehend ‘the man in the van’, he had taken pains to find out more details concerning the case and to read up what notes were available to him as a lowly constable, one who was not qualified enough yet to be part of any investigative team. It had helped him form a general picture of the situation. He was aware that there were now two young girls under police protection and they were the vulnerable ones. He had made a note of their addresses and the schools which they attended. The more he had mulled these facts over, he believed that the killer had a restricted opportunity to strike – an opportunity he would be desperate to take.

Two girls. Which one deserved his attention? He just had to choose one like the fall of a dice. He decided on Elizabeth Saunders simply because he liked the name Elizabeth. He knew that she attended St Jude’s Catholic School in the Almondbury district and that she would be taken to the school by WPC Jean Fraser. It wouldn’t do any harm to observe them. Who knew what he might see?

Hirst got into the school early. It was so easy. Only the cleaners were about and he easily avoided those. Presumably the caretaker was somewhere to be found on the premises but Hirst saw neither hide nor hair of him. He couldn’t believe his luck. With surreptitious movement down the various poorly lit corridors – not fully illuminated until the teachers and students arrived – he familiarised himself with the layout of the school on the ground floor. He was particularly interested in the head teacher’s study and the various rooms close by. In closely inspecting this corridor he discovered exactly what would suit his purposes. A walk-in kind of broom cupboard. It was unlocked and looked neglected. The gods were smiling on him today.

At first Elizabeth Saunders had enjoyed the attention and celebrity that being accompanied by a policewoman to school had brought her. It had marked her out as special. Rather like a pop star attending a concert and being protected by security guards. And she quite liked her official chaperones, especially WPC Fraser – ‘call me Jeannie’. She had a kind, mumsy way with her and smelt nice. But after a few days the novelty wore off. She found that when she arrived at school and Jeannie stayed with her in the playground until the bell went for registration, her friends tended to avoid her, not wanting to mix with a grown-up in uniform. Elizabeth felt isolated. And she had run out of conversation with Jeannie. She wanted to chat with her mates about school, boys and other girlie things – topics that she couldn’t talk to Jeannie about.

WPC Fraser had sensed this change and if the truth be known she was rather bored with this particular chore and was relieved when the bell rang and the girls began to troop inside the school and her duties were over for that morning.

‘Look after yourself. Take care and I’ll see you this afternoon,’ she said, smoothing Elizabeth’s hair in an affectionate manner.

The girl nodded, her eyes already seeking out her friends. ‘Thanks,’ she muttered as she skipped off quickly to join the throng of girls entering the school.

WPC Jeannie Fraser sighed. She wondered how long this was going to last. She hadn’t joined the police force to become a superannuated nanny. Heading back to the car, she had visions of a hot cup of tea and a fag waiting for her back at the canteen. As she slipped into the patrol car, she took no notice of a shabby blue van parked across the road from the entrance to the school. Slipping a mint in her mouth, she drove off at speed.

As Elizabeth made her way down the crowded corridor in haste, attempting to catch up with a couple of her friends, she felt a tug on her satchel. Turning, she discovered a shadowy figure facing her. It was a man of medium height. He wore a long raincoat and some kind of cap on his head, with the brim pulled well forward over his eyes. His chin was adorned by a rather scruffy beard and he was carrying a very large sports bag.

‘Sorry to bother you, miss,’ he said in a quiet, polite voice, ‘I’m lost. Can you show me to the head’s office? I have an appointment with her, you see.’

Elizabeth hesitated. She really wanted to see her friends before registration took place. For this procedure, Mr Maynard, her form teacher, demanded silence while he filled in the ticks and crosses with neat precision, so there was no chance of a gossip then. However, she knew that it would be rude to refuse this request from a visitor to the school. They had all been drilled about behaving politely to strangers.

‘It’s down the other way. I’ll show you. Follow me.’

‘Thank you, miss,’ said the man.

Moving against the tide of youngsters, Elizabeth led the man back towards the main foyer and then along a side corridor.

‘It’s down there on the right,’ she said, pointing.

The man smiled strangely. ‘Where exactly? Would you show me?’

The girl raised her eyebrows in frustration. How thick was this chap? The room had a sign on it saying ‘Head teacher’. A kid of five could find it.

Without a word and stifling an irritated sigh, she walked down the corridor. There was no one else in sight. As they neared the head teacher’s room, she thought the man behind her faltered, but before she was able to turn round, she felt a pad of something soft clamped to her mouth and a strong arm around her neck. She tried to call out, to scream, but she couldn’t. Soon she lost the power to struggle as the fumes from the cloth held firmly against her face assailed her senses. A ferocious drowsiness overpowered the girl and her limbs began to turn to jelly as she lost consciousness.

In an instant, Hirst had dragged the girl into the nearby broom cupboard. He laid her gently on the floor and gazed with rapt attention at her inert form. For a fleeting moment he was tempted to complete the deed here and now. However, no matter how tempting that was, it had not been part of his plan and he quickly swept this notion aside. To act impulsively was too dangerous and besides he wanted the satisfaction of leaving the body in a more appropriate location. He must stick to his original plan.

He laid the large sports bag on the floor by the girl and unzipped it. Gently, he folded her body, bringing her knees up to her stomach and lowering her head on to her chest. Then he lifted the girl and placed her body inside the bag. He brushed her hair down over her face so that it would not be caught in the zip. Once, she was neatly encased inside the bag, he fastened it. He paused for a few moments, taking a series of deep breaths before opening the door of the small room and gazing out into the corridor. A young girl scurried past and disappeared, and then the coast was clear. Hauling up the bag which now sagged with its new contents, he stepped out into the corridor and, with as much haste as possible, he made his way towards the exit.

PC Alan Hargreaves had been parked up a narrow side street just opposite St Jude’s Catholic School for some time and he had a clear view of the entrance. He was in an unmarked patrol car – a black Vauxhall Corsa. He was due to be up touring the Ainley Top stretch of the M62 motorway on the lookout for speeders, but he just wanted to check out his hunch first of all. He knew he was taking a risk and he certainly would be for the high jump if he was found out, but he knew he just had to take the risk. After all, effective policing inevitably involved taking chances.

He was there before WPC Jean Fraser had arrived with the young girl, Elizabeth Saunders, but not before Frank Hirst had entered the school premises. He watched all the arrivals at the school assiduously, noting everyone who had entered the gates. Some of the students had been accompanied by parents, some arriving in cars while a whole troop disembarked from a double-decker bus, swarming noisily through the gates. He could see the small staff car park from his vantage point and had observed all those parking there. None of the adults bore any resemblance to the suspect, the scruffy bearded man he had nearly apprehended. By now the front of the school was quiet. All the inmates, it seemed, were inside for the day.

Well, he mused sadly, the whole idea had been a grasping at straws exercise anyway. With a sigh, he accepted that in his heart of hearts, he didn’t think that the murderer would turn up in broad daylight and attempt to snatch the girl, no matter how twisted his mind was now. He was about to turn the key in the ignition when he saw a figure emerge from the front of the school. It was a fellow in a long raincoat and tweed flat cap, pulled well down over his forehead. He hadn’t see him before. He was carrying a very large sports bag which from the fellow’s gait and stooped posture was extremely heavy indeed.

PC Hargreaves wound down his window and leaned out to get a clearer view of this man. He stared hard, trying to get a good look at his features, which were difficult to see because he kept his head thrust down on his chin in the shadow of his cap.

There was something about his demeanour and that oddly shaped, heavy sports bag which prompted a series of prickling sensations at the back of PC Hargreaves’ neck. As a policeman he was trained to view most things as potentially suspicious, but in this case he was fairly convinced there was something that was not quite right. As the man reached the kerbside, he raised his head to check that it was safe to cross, and as he did so, Hargreaves caught sight of his face – the face and that scruffy beard. The prickling sensations went off the Richter scale. This was the man. This was the bloody man.