Innocent Blood (20 page)

‘Well, I am convinced that there is no direct connection between Hirst and this new fellow. He’s come out of the blue, working on his own. But why? What on earth is his motive?’

‘To finish the job that Hirst started.’

‘Possibly. That would be the obvious answer. But there is something more, I’m convinced of it.’

‘What?’

‘That I don’t know.’

‘What now?’

‘Back to base, I guess. We’ll need to check once again on those who had relatives involved in that coach crash. Particularly those who are male, tallish with blond hair and a prominent nose. I’ll get on with that and you see what you can find out about the sergeant’s uniform. Check if any have gone missing. It’s also quite possible that he hired one from a stage costume place. There’s a couple locally and a big one in Leeds. Get Susan to help you to follow that one up.’

Bob nodded. ‘Of course, there is another possibility.’

Snow nodded. ‘I know. That he used his own …’

As Snow busied himself, or tried to busy himself, with the routine business of following up the frail leads that this incident had presented, he found his mind allowing strange and preposterous ideas to leak into his consciousness concerning the abduction of Elizabeth Saunders. There was something far more challenging, far more unnerving about this crime. The fact that his name had been mentioned by the perpetrator made it very personal and it seemed to him, although he could hardly admit the thought, let alone verbalise it, that the girl had been taken as a punishment for him. To cause him pain and distress. He tried to block this idea, but with a fierce relentlessness, it returned to haunt him.

He had succeeded in keeping the story from the press. In this case, publicity would be detrimental rather than helpful. He also organised police surveillance on Teresa Duff, the other survivor of the coach crash. He was fairly certain she would be targeted before long. He prayed that this was some kind of sick game and the man who had taken Elizabeth did not really intend to kill her. Just to teach him a lesson … God, there was that thought again.

At the end of a long, weary day, Snow sat in his office, tense and drained. Bob Fellows had reported that there was no one directly connected with the coach crash who was tall with blond hair and a big nose. Similarly, there had been a dead end in the police uniform enquiries. This particularly increased Snow’s angst because it allowed him to consider that the abductor had worn his
own
uniform, that he was in fact a policeman. Not only did that slice the lid off a particularly nasty can of worms but it was another tick on the checklist of the nightmarish theory that was building in his mind, one that would not go away.

As dusk began to fall, he gave in to it and decided to carry out a basic investigation, one which, with any luck, would kick these dark ideas into touch. After making a few telephone enquiries, he headed out of town towards Brighouse, a small town some five miles from Huddersfield. As the road dropped down from the Fixby roundabout, he made a sharp left and turned into Tinker Lane. Although it was just off the busy main road, it was a leafy and very suburban thoroughfare with the houses shielded by trees and high walls. He parked the car and made his way until he reached number 17, a fifties bungalow, with a neat but boring garden. There was a small driveway at the side of the building, leading to a single garage. There were no lights on in the house.

Snow went through the routine of ringing the doorbell, fairly sure that no one would answer. That proved to be the case. He skirted along the front of the house, across the lawn, and peered in at the sitting-room window. It was very difficult to make anything out but it was clear that the house was empty. He slipped around to the back of the property and gained entry by the kitchen door. With speed and efficiency, he visited every room in the house, giving it a cursory once-over, hoping that something would easily identify itself as a useful clue. Nothing did. All was neat and tidy and devoid of any clues. That was until he visited the bedroom. There on the candlewick bedspread was a foolscap envelope bearing his name.

Snow’s heart constricted when he saw it. He stared at the envelope for over a minute, not daring to touch it, almost as though he thought it would burst into flames if he did so. Eventually, he leaned forward, took up the envelope and slowly pulled back the loose flap to extract the content, which was one single sheet of A4 paper with writing in a red felt-tip pen: ‘Catch Me If You Can.’

Snow closed his eyes in horror. So he had been right. That very nasty theory that had been nagging him all day was the correct one. The man he was after was Colin Bird. Colin Bird, the tall chap with blond hair and a prominent nose. It was crazy! He was the one who had taken Elizabeth Saunders, apparently carrying on where Frank Hirst had left off. But why? Could it be that all this was because Snow had rejected his advances? A lover spurned had taken a young girl in bitter spite and had untied the knot of Snow’s successful murder case.

‘The man must be mad,’ muttered Snow to himself as he gazed once more at the taunting message. Mad? Indeed, but that didn’t help matters. It made them far worse. Where there was madness, there was no logic. Only the corkscrew kind.

Snow stuffed the note in his inside pocket and made his way downstairs. He realised that, now he was sure Bird was behind the abduction, he couldn’t keep the matter to himself any more. How on earth would it look to his colleagues? What light did it shine on him? Why would a gay man make advances to DI Paul Snow? How could he explain that? With difficulty. He swore. That was a bridge he would have to cross at some point …

However, the real big question now was – where the hell was Bird hiding out? Snow realised that a more rigorous search of the house was necessary to see if he could dig up any clues as to where Bird was. For the next forty minutes or so he did a fine sweep of the premises: checking drawers, cupboards, shelves and clothing in a desperate attempt to find something, any little something, that might give a clue to Bird’s plans or whereabouts. He even emptied out an old golfing bag, but to no avail. As he grew more and more frustrated, it occurred to Snow that Bird, an experienced copper like himself, had preceded him and removed anything which might be of use to those on his tail. That was until he examined the contents of the pedal bin in the kitchen.

Towards the bottom of the bin, amongst some gooey detritus, were a couple of scraps of paper from a formal letter. They had been screwed up into a tight ball. There was no sign of the remaining section of the letter, but as Snow unfurled these scraps and read them, he experienced a flicker of hope. They were part of a communication from Silver Trees Country Cottages and it would seem Mr Bird was hiring one of their properties for a month. There was a reference number and a name of the cottage, which was Links View. The location was not given but the date of the communication was only four days ago.

Then he remembered there had been a brochure in the magazine rack from Silver Trees which he had ignored. He moved swiftly into the sitting room, retrieved the brochure and sat down to examine it carefully. It didn’t take him long to find Links View Cottage. It was located, as he assumed, near a golf course; this one was on the outskirts of Meltham, a village just eight miles from the centre of Huddersfield, heading towards the Lancashire border. The bastard wanted to remain at the centre of the action, thought Snow, a grim smile touching his features briefly.

Now he had to decide what do to. Should he turn vigilante and thus reduce the possibility of the fallout from Bird’s motives, which would certainly place him, Snow, firmly under scrutiny and possibly lead to his exposure? Or should he inform his colleagues and turn it into an authorised operation?

He sat in the gloom for five minutes or so, agonising over what to do. Eventually, with a sigh, he rose from his chair and made for the door. He had made his decision and he wanted to act quickly before he changed his mind. As he left the house and headed for his car, he hoped to God he was doing the right thing.

It took Snow about forty minutes to drive from Brighouse to the village of Meltham. He called in at the Waggon and Horses, one of the four public houses in the village, and, over half a pint, enquired of the young barman where the golf club was situated and, in particular, if he knew where Links View Cottage was.

The lad shook his head. ‘I’m not from round here. I’m a student at the Poly. This is my night job to help pay my way. Sorry, mate.’

‘Maybe I can help,’ chipped in a ruddy-faced fellow, perched on a stool by the bar. He was the epitome of a country gent who had seen better days. His expensive tweed jacket was faded, pilled and had lost its shape and, thought Snow, the will to remain a jacket any more. The fellow wore a woollen waistcoat, complete with a series of holes, a checked shirt with curling collar and a shabby yellow tie. His nose was red and richly veined, the effect of nights by the bar rather than the bracing Yorkshire weather.

Snow smiled. ‘That would be kind,’ he replied.

The ruddy-faced fellow placed his empty whisky glass on the counter close to Snow and gazed at it with a rheumy sadness.

‘Perhaps I could buy you a drink,’ said Snow, quickly picking up the unashamed hint.

‘You certainly may. It will give me time to get my brain clear to give you directions to Links View Cottage.’

‘You know it?’ asked Snow, as he pointed to the empty whisky glass, indicating that the barman should replenish it.

‘God, yes. When Adam was a boy, I used to be a big noise up at the golf club and we had that place for parties. We had some nights there, I can tell you. That was before the committee saw fit to turn it into a bloody rented place for the townies to rest their weary limbs. It helped the club coffers, I suppose, but it was a damned shame that we lost a party venue. I say, you’re not one of those townies, are you?’

Snow shook his head and put on a smile. ‘No, I’m a local lad. I’m just visiting a friend up there. He comes from this neck of the woods as well.’

The old fellow nodded and took another sip of his scotch.

‘Where exactly is it?’ prompted Snow.

His companion raised his glass and took another generous gulp. ‘You in a motor?’ he said when he had savoured the alcohol.

‘Yes.’

‘Then it’s easy peasy. Turn left at the end of the street here, go up Wessenden Head Road and when the road forks in about a mile, go left again and within five minutes you are on the perimeter of the golf course. It’s a lovely one, you know. Fantastic views. Very bracing. You a golfer?’

‘No, no.’

‘Really. That’s a damned pity.’

‘What then?’

‘Turn in at the main entrance of the club, tootle down the drive for about half a mile and you’ll see a dirt track off to the left. Go down there until you see it. There’s a small pool nearby so don’t run the old jalopy into it, eh.’ He chuckled, overly amused at his own observation.

‘Thank you.’ Snow made to move when the old fellow touched his elbow.

‘You’re not going now, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Damn pity. I was hoping to keep you talking a little while longer. You see my glass is nearly empty again.’ At this he roared with laughter.

‘Maybe next time,’ said Snow, beating a hasty retreat.

Snow followed the old fellow’s directions and within ten minutes he was making his way down the very long sweeping drive of Holme Valley Golf Club, which ran through the gently undulating fairways. Far away on his right he could see the twinkling lights of Holmfirth and some scattered cottages in the hills beyond. About a mile ahead of him was the silhouette of the golf house itself, ghostly against the mid blue of the evening sky. Passing through a little copse, he saw the dirt road off to the left. He drove down it a while until he caught sight in the distance of the outline of a low building which he assumed was Links View Cottage. There was no glow from the windows suggesting habitation. It stood stark and strangely foreboding, in relief against the night sky.

Snow pulled his car into the side of the track, close to a bank of bushes. He switched off the engine and lights and stared out into the darkness. So, here he was. There was no real going back now. He waited a few moments, staring at the dark building, willing it to somehow reveal its secrets. Was Colin Bird holed up in there? Is this where he had taken the girl? Was she still alive? As that question filtered into his brain, he felt his throat constrict. He wasn’t a religious man so he could not pray that the girl was all right, unharmed or still alive at least. But he willed it with as much inner force as he could muster.

Still those questions ricocheted around his brain. Questions, questions, questions! The only way to find the answers to those was to act. With a deep intake of breath, he left the car and, keeping to the shadows, began making his way towards the cottage.

He moved towards the copse which surrounded the far side of the pool. From here, moving to his right, he could see the front of the cottage which had a small American-style wooden porch with an upholstered bench that afforded a view of the pool. Snow realised that he would have to break cover and skirt the pool in order to approach the front door. Fleetingly, he contemplated moving to the extreme right of the copse and slipping down the far side of the cottage to see if there was anywhere he could gain entry from the rear. While he was considering this notion, he heard a rustling sound in the bushes behind him. As he turned slowly, it seemed a very bright light, like a flash of lightning, dazzled him. This coincided with him experiencing a sudden fierce pain in the side of the head. He had just seconds to realise that he had been slugged hard, before his legs gave way and he lost consciousness.

The first thing that Snow became conscious of before he opened his eyes was the sound of music and the smell of marijuana. He kept his eyes closed while he waited for all his other senses to reassert themselves. It didn’t take him long to realise that he had a pounding headache and the side of his head throbbed painfully. Then he remembered the blow. The memory of it strangely seemed to increase the pain that he felt. Breathing gently to help stabilise his nerves and heart rate, while still keeping the eyes shut, he tried to estimate what kind of situation he was in. Quite quickly he was able to ascertain that his arms were tied behind his back. The bonds were tight and chafing his wrists, but his feet were free. He was lying face downwards on some sort of rough rug or floor covering. He thought he recognised the music. It was scratchy and old, some French tune which was played, he was fairly certain, by Stéphane Grappelli and Django Reinhardt. He almost smiled, aware how inconsequential the identification of the music was to his current predicament, which he now assessed as being very dangerous indeed. It would seem that he had been caught by Colin Bird, who had trussed him up and dragged him into the cottage and was no doubt sitting close by with a drink, smoking a spliff and listening to jazz while he waited for DI Paul Snow to regain consciousness so that he could … what? Torment him? Kill him?