Innocent Blood (16 page)

Christ!

He was already across the road and stowing the sports bag into the back of a grey van, not unlike the other one he had encountered. What should he do now, thought Hargreaves. If he got out of his car and tried to apprehend the man, by the time he had reached the vehicle, he would have had time to drive off. No, it would be best if he followed him. See where the bastard was going. One horrific thought struck him as he started up the engine. That sports bag. That heavy, distended sports bag. What on earth did it contain? PC Hargreaves’ stomach flipped as he answered his own question.

Paul Snow had arrived late at the office that morning. This was partly because he had slept very badly, thanks to Colin Bird’s visit the previous night, and partly because he was suffering from a mild hangover after indulging too much in the malt whisky into the early hours. He was angry with himself for this. He knew that while alcohol may deaden sensations and concerns temporarily, it does not alter circumstances or provide any solutions. After issuing a few gruff ‘good mornings’, he had hidden himself away in his office, where he dosed himself with several black coffees. He hoped that he wouldn’t be bothered until he felt more human.

About nine fifteen, there was a peremptory knock at the door and Bob Fellows bustled in. His face was flushed and excited. ‘We’ve had a call from PC Hargreaves. Apparently, he’s on the track of the killer – or so he believes. He’s following by car. He’s in one of the mufti models. He’ll need back-up.’

Snow was out of his chair in an instant. ‘Let’s go,’ he barked, almost cheerful that there was some action at last to divert his mind.

‘The latest is that he’s through the centre of town and heading up towards Outlane. He’s driving a grey Ford Escort van, registration number CHD 825V. Hargreaves thinks that he’s got the girl in the back of the van.’ Bob Fellows conveyed this information in staccato fashion as he drove the car at great speed out of the HQ car park and on to the main road.

Snow nodded sternly. He was unsure in his own mind whether he wanted this young copper to be right or wrong. If the girl was in the van, the chances are that she was already dead.

‘For the moment, we must leave the matter in Hargreaves’ hands while we follow this up. We don’t want any patrol car getting in on the act. If he sees a police vehicle on his tail, who knows what crazy thing he’ll do.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Fellows, happy to let his boss make decisions in this volatile situation.

Snatching up the intercom, Snow made contact with Hargreaves.

‘DI Snow here. We’re coming after you. Please detail your current location.’

‘Hello, sir,’ came the crackly response. Even through the tiny speaker Snow could gauge the tension in his policeman’s voice. ‘I’m just two cars behind the suspect, travelling up New Hey Road. He’s taking it fairly steady and luckily for me the traffic is still rather heavy from the morning rush. We’re about two minutes from Outlane village.’

‘Good man. Make sure you hold him in sight and keep us in touch with his movements. We must not lose him at any cost.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Snow switched off the intercom. ‘Outlane,’ he muttered. ‘Looks like he might be headed out on to the moors.’

‘To dispose of the body.’

Snow narrowed his eyes, and stared resolutely at the road ahead without replying.

Hirst passed through the small village of Outlane, and soon undulating fields were flowing past on either side of him. The road ribboned off in a fairly straight fashion up towards the moors and the Lancashire border. Those moors. That bleak terrain forever associated with Myra Hindley and Ian Brady, the murderers who had buried their young victims up there in unmarked graves. No doubt he would be compared to them. Evil child killers. But he was not like them. They were mad murderers who killed for kicks, for pure pleasure. There was no purpose, no reason behind their killings. He wasn’t mad and he wasn’t evil. He had a real motive for doing what he was doing. He was an angel of justice, balancing those scales that God had tipped the wrong way. He derived no enjoyment from his actions, a dark satisfaction perhaps, because he was performing a duty to his wife and his lovely daughter. He was righting a major wrong. When all this was over, he would join them. If at all possible, he would not wait to be captured. Once he had completed his task, he would have nothing to live for. His death would be the fitting final chapter in this bleak story.

As the road rose towards the dim horizon, as though waiting to be enfolded by the barren moors, the sky seemed to grow darker and the clouds loured above the bleak countryside as though waiting in misty ambush. But Hirst was not headed for the moors. He had another destination in mind.

‘He’s turned left off the main road, sir. I think he’s making for Scammonden Dam reservoir.’

‘Are there any other vehicles on the road with you apart from Hirst’s van?’ asked Snow.

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, for God’s sake keep him in view but stay well back. He must not twig that you’re following him.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘We’re not far behind you now. Just watch and wait.’

‘Will do, sir.’

Hirst manoeuvred the van at moderate speed along the narrow twisting roads which led towards the great man-made stretch of water that was the Scammonden Dam. His mind was so concentrated on his driving and the act he intended to commit when he reached his destination, the visitor’s car park which was perched high above the dam, that he failed to spot the black Corsa some two hundred yards behind him.

Hirst pulled into the car park area. There was just one other vehicle parked at the far end. There was no sign of the driver. Hirst assumed that he was a walker and was somewhere along the water’s edge, making a circular tour of the dam. He knew this was a popular pursuit for casual walkers.

He got out of the van and walked all the way around it, checking there was no one else in the vicinity. When he was convinced he was alone in this windswept spot, he opened the back doors, clambered inside and pulled them to again. The sports bag lay there in the shadows. Carefully he pulled down the zip and folded back the sides of the bag to expose the body within.

The girl moved slightly, the rush of cool air assailing her senses. As he knelt down beside her, she opened her eyes. They were glazed and sleepy and not really seeing clearly. All she could make out was a dark shape gently shifting by her side.

Her lips parted slightly and she spoke, her voice emerging like an elongated purr.

‘Daddy,’ she said. And then repeated it. ‘Daddy.’

The word shocked and horrified Hirst. His body grew rigid and his heart throbbed with anguish. She had thought that he was … he was … My God, and she sounded just like …

Suddenly with an acid ice-cold ferocity, the veils were lifted from his twisted, corrupted mind. It came like a lightning bolt to his brain, waking, shaking him from his mad dream. That little girl’s voice calling for her daddy. His body vibrated with shock and emotion. It was as though he was suddenly fully aware of what he had done and what he was about to do, with a searing, heart-wrenching clarity. This little, sleepy creature before him was the same age as his daughter, could be his daughter, with all her future ahead of her and he was about to kill her. To take her life. And what for?

He clutched his chest in agony as the realisation of this horror coursed through his body. He sank to his knees, emitting a strangled moan.

The girl shifted again, the eyelids fluttering and her little tongue emerging to moisten her lips.

And that word came once more like a dagger in his breast: ‘Daddy.’

For a moment time seemed to stand still. The world stopped and silence thudded in his ears. But that word, uttered by the soft, drowsy voice, lingered in the air, burrowing like some malignant worm in his ear: ‘Daddy.’

He opened his mouth to speak, to utter something, he knew not what, but no sound came. He had no idea what to do now. He couldn’t kill the girl. Not now. How could he? Not now that he had seen, had realised how wrong, how futile, how evil he had been. How could he take this girl away from her … her daddy? He ran his hand over his face, the fingers pinching his features, hard enough to cause him pain. If only this could be some horrible dream.

And then the world returned; the silence faded and he heard a noise behind him. The doors of the van swung open with a violent clang, light flooded in and a dark figure sprang forward. Before he could react in any way, Hirst felt an arm around his neck and a gruff voice muttered close to his ear, ‘Got you, you bastard.’

For a brief moment, his body relaxed as he quickly took in the situation and accepted it. He didn’t know how this had happened but he knew he was being apprehended. Remarkably, for a moment this brought him a frisson of relief. He no longer had to make decisions about the girl. He could now succumb to the whims of fate. But as the hold on his neck grew tighter, the sense of self-preservation overwhelmed these insubstantial, fleeting feelings. The innate instinct for survival rose within him, and with a ferocity he did not know he possessed, he rose up and with a roar he thrust his body backwards, ramming his assailant against the wall of the van.

With a cry of pain, PC Hargreaves slumped to the floor. He was dazed and winded but still conscious. But not for long.

Hirst, now acting on a basic animal instinct, lashed out with his fists, beating hard against Hargreaves’ face, sending the policeman’s head ricocheting backwards, crashing against the metal wall, rendering him unconscious immediately.

With a simian growl, Hirst leapt out of the back of the van and raced towards the path that led down towards the dam.

He entered the house with ease. Breaking and entering gently was one of the tricks of his trade. He was tempted to give the place a thorough search, but that was not the purpose of his visit and besides he knew that the occupant was a careful enough fellow not to leave anything that might incriminate him within easy reach. If there was anything at all – and that was doubtful, knowing this man – it would be hidden where no one could find it.

But, as he had already asserted to himself, this was not why he was making this particular house call. He wanted to spook the bastard. This was only the beginning. He smiled at the prospect. That smile was the only thing about his demeanour that gave any hint to his growing mental instability.

Now, should he put the two together or … separately? He decided on separately. In placing the items in different rooms he would provide two surprises or, preferably, two shocks. Shocks would be better. His aim was to produce gasps and cold sweats, not merely raised eyebrows. He giggled at this notion and then performed his tasks with speed.

Within minutes, he had closed the door and was walking towards his car, a very large self-satisfied grin plastered on his face.

Snow and Fellows were just pulling into the little car park overlooking Scammonden Dam when they saw Frank Hirst leap out of the grey Ford van and head off into the undergrowth.

‘You see to the girl – if she’s in there. I’ll get after Hirst,’ snapped Snow, quickly assessing the situation. He jumped out the car and hared off in the direction Hirst had taken.

As he reached the pathway which snaked its way through the trees down to the water’s edge, Snow spotted Hirst about a hundred yards ahead of him, making speedy progress. Summoning an extra burst of speed, Snow followed. It was eerily quiet around the dam. There was no rustle of wind in the trees or the sound of birds, just the faint swish of two pairs of feet racing through the dry grass.

‘Stop, police!’ cried Snow loudly, breaking that silence, knowing that this was a futile exclamation, but he felt obliged to use it. At least he was warning the bastard that the authorities were on his tail.

His voice trailed over the dead air and for a brief moment his cry caused Hirst to pause and turn round. On seeing Snow, he resumed his flight.

Within minutes both men had reached the pathway that circumnavigated the giant dam, but the chase continued. Snow was gaining ground but then suddenly Hirst left the path and made his way out on to a promontory which stuck out like a rocky finger into the choppy waters. Reaching the end of it, without a moment’s hesitation, Hirst flung himself into the water.

‘What the hell?’ muttered Snow in disbelief. ‘What is the man up to?’ The answer came to him immediately. ‘He’s bloody well going to try and drown himself. Well, he bloody well isn’t. That’s too easy a way out for him.’

With gritted teeth Snow followed suit. He dashed along the rocks and plunged into the murky water. He gave an involuntary gasp as his body reacted to the shock of the fierce cold that enveloped his body. It was as though all the oxygen was being forcibly pumped from his lungs. He gulped for air while desperately scanning the surface for any signs of Hirst. He spotted him about fifteen yards to his left. With grim determination he struck out towards his quarry, but as he drew nearer, he saw the man disappear beneath the chill grey waters. This confirmed to Snow that he was indeed intending to drown himself. That’s if he didn’t die of hypothermia first.

Snow was a fair swimmer and soon reached the spot where Hirst had vanished, realising that now he would have to dive down beneath the rippling surface after him. He knew that he couldn’t think too much about this procedure or else he would lose the impetus, the courage to do it. Already his body was shaking with cold and his limbs felt stiff and unresponsive. Taking a deep breath, he sank down under the waves. It was far gloomier than he expected: a wall of shifting grey water met his eyes, thick as a pea-souper fog and just as impenetrable. He swam a few feet, peering desperately into the darkness without success, and then surfaced once more, gasping and gulping, partially to fill his lungs with air and partially as a reaction to the Arctic cold that was slowly conquering his body. As he broke the surface, so did Frank Hirst, some ten feet away. The man was also spluttering and coughing, his arms flailing wildly in a frantic fashion. It was obvious to Snow that this heartless killer was finding it far more difficult to do away with himself than he had to take the lives of young girls.