Innocent Blood (8 page)

Still the Marsdale Choir aspect of the case was, at the moment, the only glowing ember in a fairly dead bonfire, so he might as well blow a bit harder on it. Once he’d digested his rather dry and gristly sandwich, he planned to visit Thomas Niven, widower of the choirmistress.

The Nivens’ house was a tidy bungalow on a quiet road on the outskirts of Marsdale, about four miles from Huddersfield. It always surprised and pleased Snow that once you had driven from the crowded centre of Huddersfield and were only a few miles from the town, on whichever road you took, you hit the countryside. Wooded hills rose around you, along with purple, rock-strewn moorland. You soon left the urban for the rural. To him they were complementary environments and in many ways it was what kept him in Huddersfield.

Marsdale was a charming community which, although close to Huddersfield, kept itself to itself. On his previous visits there, Snow has sensed that there was an air of insularity here borne out of self-preservation. They didn’t want to be contaminated with town folk and their ways. There were no supermarkets or the usual imprints of the national high streets here. It was all small individual shops, run by locals – the butcher, the baker and, probably up a side street somewhere, a candlestick maker. Here was a simpler, old-fashioned way of living. The inhabitants seemed to relish that they were a little behind the times. Snow sympathised with their philosophy.

Snow made his way up the path, which cut its way through a neatly trimmed lawn, rang the door chimes and waited. A voice behind the frosted glass door called out: ‘Just a minute, I’m coming.’ Moments later, it opened to reveal a tall, thin man, stooped with age, with grey, lanky hair and a pair of steel-rimmed glasses on the end of his nose. He had a copy of the
Daily Telegraph
in his hand. Snow noted that it was folded at the crossword page. The man was dressed in cord trousers, a checked shirt and a fawn cardigan. He wore a pair of carpet slippers which looked too big for his feet.

‘Yes?’ he said, peering over the top of his glasses.

Snow held up his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Snow. I was wondering if I could have a word, sir?’ He didn’t, as some officers did, just hold up the card and snap ‘Police’ in an officious manner. Not only did he regard that as rude, mildly offensive, but he knew that it put people either on edge or on the defensive – neither attitude being conducive to extracting the right kind of information from the interviewee.

Mr Niven peered at the card. ‘A word? What about?’ He seemed confused.

‘The accident and the choir.’

Niven groaned and ran his hand across the lower part of his face. ‘Oh, Lord, not that again. Haven’t I suffered enough? My wife was killed in that crash, you know.’

Snow nodded. ‘I know, sir, but I think you might be able to help me with an investigation I’m involved in.’

‘Investigation? What investigation?’

‘Perhaps I could come in and talk to you, sir.’

Niven sighed. ‘I suppose so.’

The sitting room to which Niven led him was somewhat untidy. It was, the policeman supposed, lacking the woman’s touch. Snow was aware that when a man had been looked after all his life, he found it difficult to cope with the same precision on his own. And there didn’t seem to be much point any more anyway. There was no one to see, was there? It had been the same with his father.

‘Do move those magazines and sit down. You are an inspector, you say?’

‘Yes, Detective Inspector with the West Yorkshire Police, based in Huddersfield.’

‘I see. This must be serious then. Would you care for a cup of tea?’

‘No, that’s all right.’

Niven dropped into his armchair with another sigh. Snow could see that he was relieved not to have to fuss about in the kitchen, preparing mugs of tea and no doubt searching for some errant digestive biscuits to accompany them.

Snow assumed that Niven was in his late sixties, but he had the movement and demeanour of a much older man. He remembered the newspaper report which stated that he had been too ill to attend the memorial service for the crash victims. Maybe it wasn’t just grief that kept him away but something more physical.

‘Well, how do you think I can help you?’

‘First of all, can you tell me about the Marsdale Choir?’

‘Ah, that was my wife’s pigeon. She should be here to tell you all about that.’ He paused as though he had just realised what he’d said and he turned his head away and his body shook slightly. ‘My God, I wish she was,’ he muttered into his hand.

Snow waited a moment and then carried on matter-of-factly. He knew this was the best way to counteract that kind of emotion. ‘I’m sure you helped her a lot with the youngsters.’

‘Oh, yes, yes, I did.’ He half-smiled. ‘Well, I did as I was told. I was the unofficial gopher. Gloria had taught music at the local junior school until she retired early. She had quite a good little choir there and so she thought she’d try and set up an independent girls’ choir and see if … to use her words … to see if they could “go places”.’ His grey face softened and he chuckled at the memory. ‘She wanted the best, mind you. She was a stickler for perfection. That was the secret of her success. She held auditions and the candidates came from all areas of Huddersfield. Well, she had a bit of a reputation did my Gloria. Well deserved, too.’

Snow nodded. ‘I am sure.’

‘That was about two years ago and it wasn’t very long before things started to happen. We won a few local competitions and then we started going further afield. The real success was the repertoire, you know. It was very broad and varied: a bit of “All in an April Evening” followed by some silly pop tune. There was no one else doing that. It was all Gloria’s idea.’

‘How were you involved?’

‘As I said, as a dogsbody.’ He gave a half-hearted salute and smiled but the sadness never quite left his eyes. ‘I helped to arrange things in the background but I had nothing to do with the music side. I’m tone deaf. Can’t hold a tune to save my life.’ He gave another chesty chuckle.

‘Did you get to know any of the girls?’

Thomas Niven raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Their characters and their individual talents. You must have got to know some of them quite well.’

‘Not really. I was a backroom boy. Never went to rehearsals and that. Ran a few of them home sometimes but I was Mr Paperwork and Mr Phone Calls.’

‘Did you know Gillian Bolton and Angela Cleeves?’

‘Ah,’ said Niven, his eyes widening, ‘so that’s where this is going. The two lasses who have been killed.’

Snow said nothing.

‘I didn’t know them. I knew of them. I saw them and I may have exchanged a few words with them, I suppose, like you do. But that’s all.’

‘Did your wife say anything about the girls?’

Niven thought for a moment. ‘I believe she thought the Angela girl was particularly talented but a bit of a madam. My Glo ran those rehearsals like a military campaign. From the moment the girls arrived until they left, it was work, work, work. That’s why they were so bloody good. There was no time to chit chat or fool about. I doubt if any firm friendships sprang up through the choir.’

‘Why didn’t you go to the concert in Manchester on the night of the crash?’

‘I wasn’t well enough. I was recovering from chemo. I had cancer. I’ve still bloody well got it. Some bugger up there deemed it appropriate that I should carry on living in discomfort while my Gloria, who had nothing wrong with her and so much to give, should die.’ Angry tears now rolled down the old man’s ashen features and he clenched his hands together in a desperate attempt to control his emotions.

These scenes embarrassed Snow. He never knew what to say. He felt sorry for Niven, empathised with him even, but he knew that nothing he could say would ease his pain. That practical rationale prevented him from reaching out in any sentimental, empty-gestured fashion to Niven. He should have brought Susan with him. She knew how to handle these situations. She could with great skill and remarkable facility both comfort and elicit information from the distressed interviewee.

‘It were terrible, y’know. That crash,’ Niven said suddenly, sniffing back the tears, his back straightening as he stared ahead of him, as though he was witnessing the accident in his mind. Although he hadn’t been there, Snow assumed that he must have formed images of what happened from all the reports he had heard and read. ‘Seven girls died that night,’ he continued. ‘Seven young lives snuffed out. Terrible. Most of the parents had gone by car to Manchester because there wasn’t room on the coach. Aileen Dudley and Linda Green drew the short straw. They copped it, along with the driver. Mind you, I reckon he was to blame, y’know. He was obviously going too fast. It’s a bad road at night over the tops, especially in the dark, and susceptible to mist patches. He’d have known that. And they found alcohol in his bloodstream, y’know, so he’d obviously had a drink or two. How could he? In charge of a bus full of youngsters? The bastard.’

Snow nodded. He knew that the general consensus was that the driver was probably the cause of the crash, despite the coroner’s verdict of death by misadventure.

‘And, do you know, the tragedy didn’t end there – there out on those cold damp moors.’

Snow shook his head gently. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Debbie Hirst, one of the lasses who copped it that night. Her mother topped herself. She couldn’t stand the pain of the loss. It was too much for her so she clambered up on a bridge over the M62 and jumped off. Terrible, isn’t it? What the cruel death of someone dear to you can do. It messes up your mind. But I tell you this, Inspector, I wish I’d been on the coach that night. It would have been better if we’d gone together, Glo and I. I miss her so much it bloody well hurts – hurts more than the cancer. There’s nothing here for me now. We had no children of our own so I’m left here with nothing. Nothing but the telly and the crossword, biding my time, waiting for death, waiting for the damned cancer to finally claim me.’

When Snow got back to the office, he found Bob Fellows hovering around his office door with a big grin plastered across his face.

‘Bit of a breakthrough, boss.’

‘Go on.’

‘That lass, Miranda Stone … She’s seen the van again. And she got its number.’

A small electric thrill ran through Snow’s body. This was potentially very good news indeed.

‘Tell me more.’

‘Well, the girl was in town and she saw the van. She recognised it.’

‘Because of its colour and the Blackpool sticker she mentioned?’

‘The colour, yes, but inevitably the sticker had been removed, but she looked closely and saw the triangular outline where it had been.’

‘Clever girl.’

‘Very clever because she also had the presence of mind to write down the number plate this time.’

‘Excellent. Did she see the driver?’

Bob shook his head. ‘ Apparently the van was empty. She was on her own and she was too scared to hang around.’

‘Very sensible of her but a pity she didn’t get a glimpse of him. Where was the van parked?’

‘At the top of town near the ABC cinema.’

‘Have you traced it yet?’

‘We’re on it now.’

‘Well,’ said Snow, ‘that’s potentially the best bit of news we’ve had for a while.’

The word ‘potentially’. Snow knew not to be so sanguine in situations like this. Some clues were like bubbles: you could chase them a while but if you tried to manhandle them, they vanished into thin air. As it turned out in this case, his cynical vibes proved accurate. This potential break in the case was too good to be true. An hour later, Bob came to his office, his face gloomy and shoulders hunched.

‘The van was reported stolen from a garage forecourt a month ago,’ he said without preamble.

Snow nodded. ‘It was to be expected, I suppose, but one always lives in hope.’

‘Hope is the bread and butter of the police force.’

Snow raised his eyebrows at this observation. ‘Is that the family motto?’

Bob smiled. ‘Sort of, actually. My dad used to say that all the time. He was only a humble PC but he knew the form.’

‘I reckon he did. Well, at least we’ve learned that our fellow hasn’t left the scene. He’s still around Huddersfield, so get a message out to the troops to be extra vigilant. If a little girl can spot the van on a busy street in town, God help us, one of our sharp-eyed coppers should be able to match her.’

Bob gave a salute. ‘It shall be done.’

‘We’d better hold the number back from the press for the time being. Once it becomes public, the devil will ditch the van immediately.’

‘Good thinking, sir.’

When he was alone again, Snow glanced at his watch. It was well after five now. He was weary and ready to call it a day. The thought of trudging home and making himself some makeshift meal filled him with gloom. His cooking skills were limited at the best of times and the way he felt now, he reckoned he’d make a mess of a cheese sandwich, let alone anything more ambitious. He decided on the spur of the moment to treat himself to an Indian. It had been a while since he’d been to the Shabab and he reckoned that a spicy madras curry would go down a treat. It might well help to spice up his thinking on the case.

The Shabab was only a five-minute walk from police HQ and Snow enjoyed the stroll, breathing in the cool early evening air. He walked through the door at the restaurant just after six. The atmosphere was heady with rich and pungent spices, and before he had been shown to his table, their potency had made him feel very hungry. He ordered a lager while he perused the menu. At this stage of the evening, the restaurant was quiet, with many empty tables. There were several solitary diners, individuals like himself, Snow assumed, with no one at home to share a meal with. It was times like this that he realised how isolated he was. There was no one close to him. No one whom he could confide in, to hold him tightly, to love him. The combination of his job and his sexuality made it essential that he kept that invisible barrier, that shield as he thought of it, around himself in order to function and survive. But it was times like this, sitting alone in a restaurant, that his heart ached for companionship – for some sort of ordinary life.