Innocent Blood E-Book

David Stuart Davies

• Herausgeber: The Mystery Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 296

Beschreibung

A child's body found in woodland. Parents torn apart by grief. But this is only the first victim in a series of apparently motiveless crimes. Detective Inspector Paul Snow, heading the enquiry, must discover the pattern and reveal the chilling truth as a cunning and violent murderer becomes desperate and even more unpredictable. Haunted by secrets of his own, the complex DI Snow races against the clock, following a murderous trail that leads all the way to a dark and shocking climax. Innocent Blood, set in Yorkshire in the 1980s, is the second in the gritty series featuring DI Paul Snow and maintains the high level of tension and dramatic surprises of the first, Brothers in Blood.

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR DAVID STUART DAVIES

‘David Stuart Davies knows how to write and how to twist the knife in the reader’s mind.’

Peter James on Innocent Blood

‘It’s dark but delicious.’

Gyles Brandreth on Brothers in Blood

‘I loved each chronicle, they were each very different and showed David Stuart Davies’ talent for creating well-rounded characters in seven different situations. I felt I knew Luther Darke after just the first tale but still had more to learn. A great collection of short historical stories.’

Crime Book Club on The Darke Chronicles

‘Charming, wistful and pleasingly nasty, as is only proper.’

Mark Gatiss on The Halloween Mask

‘One of the best Holmes pastiches of all.’

Crime Time on The Tangled Skein

‘I just can’t keep quiet about this book. It is a real page turner, an exhilarating roller coast ride of suspense, appalling crimes, hidden clues, with more twists and turns than a dark foreboding maze. Come! Join the chase … after all the game is afoot!’

Mystery Net Community on The Veiled Detective

‘A thundering good yarn … I wholeheartedly recommend it to anyone who has an affection for Holmes and a good, old-fashioned page turner.’

Sleuthing the Shelves on The Scroll of the Dead

To Judy & Johnny, shining lights in a naughty world.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

PROLOGUE

Autumn 1984

The winding dark ribbon of road stretched out before him, reaching into the blackness beyond the feeble reach of his headlights. The wavering dotted white lines were hypnotic, seeming to merge into one blurry trail, luring him into the dark nothingness beyond. He wanted to stop, pull up by the roadside and just fall asleep. Already his eyelids were heavy and his brain was tired. Anxiously, he ran his finger around his collar. Oh, how he wished he’d not had that pint of beer. Usually he never touched alcohol when driving. It was one of his rules. It was one of the company’s rules. And Daisy would go mad with him if she found out. But it had been a long and boring day and the bloody singing competition had overrun, keeping him waiting, waiting, waiting. He’d read his book, scoured the paper from front to back and smoked up. It was only to allay boredom really, he told himself, that he had weakened and had just the one pint. Just the one. To whet his whistle. But now he wished he hadn’t. He could still taste the bitterness on his tongue. He was weary and his fatigue was joining forces with the alcohol and the heat of the coach to force his eyelids forever downwards. He kept biting his lip to try and keep himself alert.

The dark, unlit, moorland road over the top from Manchester down into Marsdale undulated and curved erratically and it needed all one’s nerve and attention to travel it efficiently … and safely.

Oh, how he wished he hadn’t had that pint.

Most of the kiddies were asleep and even the few grown-ups on board seemed to have nodded off. There was no sound from them. He was alone with the drone of the engine, the thrum of the tyres on the tarmac and that damned winding road shimmering elusively out there in the black starless night.

Perhaps he should stop, pull up and step outside to grab a few harsh gulps of moorland air. That would help wake him up. Maybe, but it would wake up the rest of them, too, and make the grown-ups suspicious. Suspicious enough to mention it to his boss. To report him. Maybe some of them had already smelled the beer on his breath.

No, he had to keep going, staring hard, fighting the drowsiness and biting his lip.

The road suddenly dropped sharply downwards and as he kept his uncertain gaze fixed on the darkness before him, his forehead creased into a deep frown as he saw it in the distance. Lying like some giant amorphous white blanket across the road. Less than a hundred yards head, gently seething and writhing, waiting in ambush, was a thick bank of fog. Thin tendrils, curlicues of white, drifted away from the heart of the mass towards him, almost like arms reaching out in an embrace.

He gave a little gasp and, overreacting, braked heavily.

As his foot slammed down on the pedal, there was a high-pitched squeal, like the cry of a child. The whole coach shuddered and began to swing wildly as the tyres locked and slithered on the wet surface of the road. The vehicle had now left his control as though it had a mind of its own. He froze at the wheel as with some awful prescience he knew what was going to happen before it did.

The coach approached the bank of fog at speed, the braking wheels screeching along the tarmac, making the vehicle swerve and shudder violently as though some giant hand had grasped it and was shaking it. Suddenly, the rear end of the coach swung around to the right, colliding with the embankment with a tremendous crunch, forcing the whole vehicle to tip over towards the left. The passengers were flung screaming from their seats as the vehicle was swallowed up by the great maw of white fog. Still travelling at speed, the coach tipped over completely on to its side, sliding and groaning in a shower of sparks across the carriageway towards the drop at the other side. For a split second it teetered there and then with an awful creaking sound, it dropped over the edge and somersaulted downwards into inky gloom. The sound of twisting metal and of the chassis and body being crumpled on impact was mingled with the terrified screams and cries of its young passengers.

Within seconds all was silent. The coach was in darkness and still, apart from one wheel which still spun lazily. The driver, his head protruding through the shattered glass of the windscreen, still stared out at the impenetrable night, but this time with unseeing eyes.

CONTENTS

Praise for David Stuart Davies

Title

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

About the Author

Copyright

ONE

She looked down at the dead little girl on the slab. Her little girl. The face all battered and bruised and those warm brown eyes staring up at her. They did not see her now. They would never see her again. For a moment she held that thought in simple matter-of-fact terms in her mind, until the full implication of its truth struck her and she shuddered, her stomach crunching into a tight knot. She had no emotion left within her to cry. That would come later. That thought froze her to the marrow. She saw before her years of deep sadness. Empty nights of fruitless longing.

Her baby.

Gone.

Gone before she’d had a chance to taste life.

She was tempted to reach out and touch the face of her daughter but she couldn’t. Her body was held immobile by the overwhelming pain of loss.

And then she was conscious of the policewoman by her side. The officer had moved nearer and had placed a tentative hand on her arm. It was, she supposed, meant to be a sympathetic gesture. A practised one, no doubt. How many times had she stood by a mother gazing down at her dead child? Just part of the job. All she really wanted was for her to confirm the identity of the dead body so that she could tick this one off. There were others on her list.

A flicker of anger flamed briefly within her but she didn’t have the energy to keep it alight. All her tortured emotions were swamped with an overpowering sense of fatigue. She just wanted to curl up in a ball and float away from the light.

‘Yes,’ she said softly at length, her voice a flat monotone. ‘That’s our Debbie.’

Our Debbie. And where was her father? She suddenly had a vision of him as she had last seen him, not an hour ago. He was sitting on the sofa, tie askew, a large tumbler of whisky cradled in his hands and his face red raw with crying. ‘I can’t go,’ he’d said, one hand ruffling the hair at the back of his neck. It was a bleat rather than a statement. ‘I just can’t see her. Not like that. Not now … not now she’s …’ He took a gulp of whisky and began sobbing in that strange silent fashion once more.

She had left him there without a word.

They moved around the house like ghosts, neither really taking any notice of the other: not talking, not acknowledging each other’s presence. They were dressed in unfamiliar clothes in which they felt both uncomfortable and unnatural. But then, she thought, what was natural about today? What was bloody natural about burying your ten-year-old daughter?

They were both ready an hour before time. An hour before the car was due to pick them up. After a while, once she had checked her appearance yet again in the sitting-room mirror, she sat on the edge of the sofa, ice-frozen, held still and self-contained by grief, while he paced up and down in his ill-fitting dark suit, like a caged animal, his body rippling with frustration, a rich mixture of heartache and anger. More than once his hand reached for the whisky bottle but he pulled back. He must try, for today at least, to refrain. These two individuals who had loved each other once, had been a close couple, had created a beloved child together, no longer recognised these ties. They were worse than strangers now. It was as though they belonged to different dimensions. The bonds had been fraying before the accident, but the loss of their little girl had severed the close links in a savage and irretrievable way. They could hardly bear to be in each other’s company now. They treated their sorrow as some kind of dark secret which they must keep to themselves and never, never share.

The rustling of his suit as he paced the floor and the ticking of the clock were the only sounds of normality in that benighted house.

And then another sound. Sharp knocking on the door. She rose from the sofa; he stood still. Neither looked at the other.

‘That’ll be the car,’ he said and walked out into the hall.

She picked up her handbag from the floor and followed him out.

The door opened in the gloomy hallway, allowing a shaft of bright daylight to bleach their haggard features. The driver from the funeral parlour was on the doorstep. He touched his peaked cap. ‘Mr and Mrs Hirst?’

The man nodded and gazed beyond the driver to the dark car parked by their gate, the car waiting to take them to the crematorium for the final goodbye.

It was early evening when she parked the car near Scammonden reservoir. The darkening sky was suffused with pink streaks in the west and the ghost of a crescent moon was just visible. Pulling up her coat collar against the cold air, she made her way to the bridge which ran over the motorway. Well before she reached it, she could hear the roar of the traffic from the M62. The air around her vibrated with the sound. The lanes were thick with vehicles now as workers made their trek home. She stared down at the parade of cars and lorries, their bright, beady headlights whizzing past. They looked so fragile, so vulnerable. One little error, one careless manoeuvre and tragedy would triumph. For a few moments she seemed hypnotised by this fast-flowing stream of traffic. It seemed endless. So many different lives on the move, she thought, each with its own joys and woes, secrets and sadnesses zooming by, under the bridge and away to a whole myriad of destinies. Have any of you lost a daughter, she wondered. Have any of you had your child cruelly snatched away from you? Do any of you know that kind of pain? She began crying. It was the first time since she had learned the terrible news. Some inner resolve had held back the tears. She had deemed it selfish. It hadn’t been about her: it had been about Debbie. But now was different. This was about her and if she was going to cry at all, it had to be now. She allowed herself that. Her body shook with the release of so much pent-up feeling. Turning her face up to the sky, she emitted a feral moan, like a wolf howling at the moon.

Gradually the tears subsided and a strange serenity claimed her. It was time. Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, to clear her vision, with calm deliberation she clambered on top of the bridge wall. For a moment she teetered there, a gentle smile touching her tear-stained features. She was no longer in pain. She was no longer afraid. The smile broadened as she let herself fall.

TWO

Spring 1985

‘Are you sure he’s in there?’ DS Bob Fellows asked softly.

DI Paul Snow’s reply was a curt nod. It was, thought Fellows, typical of his boss, a brief, stoical, no-nonsense response given in a minimal fashion. Snow was not known for his loquaciousness.

‘What now?’

‘Well, back-up is on the way. I don’t think we should waste time. Let’s pay a call.’

‘Really?’

Snow repeated the nod. ‘Come on.’

They crossed the cobbled street and approached the row of terraced houses. These ancient properties had all seen better days but the one with the green door looked particularly worse for wear. The window frames were rotting and the hardboard facing on the door was buckled with age and damp.

Snow knocked hard on it and they waited.

Eventually they heard a sound within. In time the door opened a crack and a man’s face peered out. As soon as he saw Snow and Fellows, the man attempted to slam the door shut, but Snow was too quick for him and with force he shouldered it open. With a curse, the man stumbled backwards into the dimly lit hallway. Snow followed him in and saw that he had a weapon in his right hand. It looked like an ordinary carving knife, no doubt snatched up in haste from the kitchen table. With a gruff cry the man lunged forward, with the knife sweeping in a tight arc, but Snow sidestepped the blow. With a snarl of disappointment, the man turned rapidly on his heel to make a run for it but Snow leapt forward and grabbed his shirt collar and hauled him backwards.

‘John Andrew Beaumont, I am arresting you …’

The man had turned and aimed the knife at the policeman once more. Snow released his grip and stepped back to avoid the blade again, which this time missed his face by inches.

‘Fuck you, copper,’ snarled Beaumont, and once more he turned to escape down the hall. Again Snow leapt forward and hauled him back but this time he was not so gentle. Before Beaumont was able to raise the knife, Snow swung him round and thumped him hard in the solar plexus. With a muffled groan, he dropped the knife and his body folded as he slumped to the floor.

‘Get the cuffs on him, Bob,’ said Snow easily. ‘Now, as I was saying, John Andrew Beaumont, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Julia Beaumont and her sister Andrea. Anything you say …’

Later that evening Snow sat with Fellows drinking coffee in his office.

‘It’s a good feeling to know that Beaumont is locked up, safely stowed away in the cells. Crazy man,’ observed Fellows.

Snow peered over the top of his mug. ‘No, he’s not crazy. Most murderers aren’t crazy. They’re cunning and angry and driven.’

‘What drives ’em, eh?’

‘Ah, you’ll need a medic to explain that. It’s just a barrier that breaks down or a broken fence that tempts you to wander into a prohibited area. Most folk would ignore the broken fence, but some, some are tempted to pass through it. To trespass. It’s greed, fury, self-protection or simply pleasure that prompts them to cross the line, but once they’ve done it, they can’t find their way back.’

‘Like Beaumont.’

‘Like Beaumont. And others …’ he said, almost to himself.

‘Well, I still say they’re crazy.’

Snow gave a deep sigh. ‘Yes … I suppose you could be right.’

THREE

He sat quietly, his emotions firmly in check as he turned the pages of the small photograph album. It was a mechanical procedure, one that he had carried out at regular intervals in the past few weeks. It provided him with comfort and a focus, and in a strange way, it gave him thinking time. He desperately needed thinking time. Now that his life was in ruins, he had to decide what to do. The landscape of his existence had been scarred beyond recognition – nothing would be the same again – and he was unsure how he was to survive. Or if he wanted to survive.

He gazed down at the black and white photographs, unmoved now by the memories they evoked. When he had first started looking at the pictures, he had not been able to focus on them because of his tears. But they had dried up. Now there were no tears, no ache in the stomach, just a void. But he was conscious that slowly but surely something was creeping in to fill that void.

It was anger.

He welcomed it and allowed it to build within him, fuelled by whisky, until a plan, a dark and audacious plan, began to form in his mind. He kept running it like a reel of film through his mind over and over again. Each time it started from the beginning, presenting him with more details and greater clarity. The plan was being honed and polished and it was a plan that gave him a purpose again. He knew that it wouldn’t give him pleasure, but it would provide him with a kind of satisfaction and a sense of justice.

The first thing he had to do was cut all ties with his past. That was easily done. He thought with an ironic grin that in many ways his past had cut its ties with him. There was only his job that kept him in the real world. He had no family and no strong friendships. He was on leave at present due to his bereavement – his double bereavement – and so it would be an easy task to hand in his resignation. He would tell them he intended to move away, to start afresh where the memories wouldn’t haunt him. Then he would disappear.

Once that had been achieved, he could start. He ran the film again in his mind and once again even greater clarity and sharper details were observed. A tight grin settled on his features. It was going to work.

The woodland was still. There was no birdsong and not a leaf, not a blade of grass moved in the late afternoon heat.

‘This way,’ said Martin, almost dragging Brenda over the crumbling wall that ran around the perimeter of the wood. He was eager and excited and so was she, but there was apprehension and a certain amount of guilt mixed up with her enthusiasm. She was all in favour of the venture but she had never done anything like this before. What was exciting was also rather frightening. Committing adultery was one thing, but having sex outside, in the open air, in a place where anyone could come upon you … well, it might be daring and erotic but it was both dangerous and a bit sordid, too. It had appealed to her when they had discussed it in the pub but now that it was about to happen she was beginning to have second thoughts.

She just wished that Martin had booked them into a hotel somewhere. Clean sheets, a soft bed and, above all, privacy. However, she knew this was impractical. They couldn’t go to a place in Huddersfield – that was too dicey – and to travel further afield and pay for a room would take time and cost money. Money that she didn’t have and neither did her out-of-work paramour.

‘Down here, love. Mind how you go,’ Martin beamed, his eyes wide with excitement as he led her down a rough path into a denser part of the wood. It began to grow dark as the foliage thickened above them, creating a gloomy umbrella canopy pierced only occasionally by thin shafts of sunlight. It struck Brenda that he seemed to know the route particularly well. Maybe she wasn’t the first girl he’d taken down here. First girl? She almost laughed out loud at that description of herself. Girl? She was pushing forty, had a paunch like a Sumo wrestler and an ungainly lug of a teenage son at home – as well as that other ungainly lug, her bloody husband. No doubt at this very moment he’d be slumped in front of the telly with a few cans of lager on the floor by his chair.

‘Not far now,’ Martin was saying, virtually pulling her along behind him.

The image of Barry, her lazy slob of a husband, which had flashed into her mind suddenly made everything seem all right. She smiled. ‘Good, lover boy,’ she said cheerfully. What the hell, she thought, all cares suddenly evaporating, she was damn well going to enjoy herself. When was the last time a man had paid any attention to her, the last time that she’d had sex when the heaving blob on top of her was sober and loving? Time was running out on her life and she was determined to grab what pleasure she could, however furtive, however sordid; however dangerous. Martin was hardly love’s young dream with his short, stocky build and boxer’s face but there was something about him that she found attractive and somehow endearing. His simplicity and honesty were rare commodities and he was kind to her. That counted for a lot.

At length they emerged into a clearing where thin strands of sunlight dappled the ground. Gazing up, she caught glimpses of blue sky through the tracery of branches. It was decorated at intervals by drifting white clouds. It was quite beautiful and Brenda forgot all her ideas about this venture being sordid. This place was beautiful, romantic, like a Hollywood movie.

Martin let go of her hand and raced ahead of her. Dropping his holdall at the base of a large oak tree, he pulled out a large grey blanket and spread it on the ground. As he did so, he looked up and grinned.

‘Come on, girl,’ he cried, and sitting down with a bump on the blanket, he beckoned her to join him.

Brenda was to discover that Martin was not a man for foreplay. With him there was no hanging about. There was a job to be done and he was keen to get on with it right away. She had hardly lowered herself on to the blanket before he was fondling her breasts.

‘You’re an eager boy, aren’t you?’ she said with mock reproval.

‘You know I’m mad about you, Bren,’ he replied, his left hand making its way up her skirt.

She smiled and lay back. She was happy to let him have his way with her. At least he was keen and he was a decent enough chap.

She felt his fingers enter her and she couldn’t help herself: she gave a little chuckle. When, she thought, had she felt as desired as this? She couldn’t honestly remember. Perhaps, never.

Sadly for Brenda it was all over in a matter of minutes. Poor old Martin was too excited. Once he’d achieved his erection, he could barely contain himself. A phrase her mother always used when they were coming back from their summer holidays when Brenda was a child suddenly came to mind: ‘Well, it was nice while it lasted,’ she’d say with a sigh. And it was. Brenda smiled and thought warm thoughts about Martin. It was nice while it lasted.

‘Fancy a fag?’ he said, struggling back into his trousers.

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m fine.’ She was glowing and feeling good. She needed no nicotine rush. She gave Martin a kiss on the cheek and clambered to her feet and adjusted her clothing. She felt like dancing, swirling around, kicking up leaves like they did in the old movies. She wasn’t stupid enough to think that it was love – but at least it was passion of a sort. That was something she thought she’d seen the last of in her life. She wandered dreamily to the far end of the clearing.

‘Careful!’ Martin’s voice echoed eerily in the stillness. She turned towards him with a frown of puzzlement.

‘The ground drops away down there. I don’t want you tumbling into the stream at the bottom.’

She grinned. ‘OK,’ she said, although she wanted to reply that she was quite capable of looking after herself. Martin was right, though: the ground did fall away sharply and suddenly into a narrow ravine. She gazed down and at the bottom she glimpsed the silver trail of a small meandering stream. In the quiet of the wood, she could hear the gentle rippling of its waters soft on the ear. It was all quite beautiful. It struck her that this serene place would have hardly changed in hundreds of years and yet less than a mile away there was that ferocious clamour and bustle of the twentieth century. 1985 was making its noisy presence felt. At certain sections the sunlight which filtered through the foliage touched the stream, gilding it, transforming it into a bright saffron ribbon. It made Brenda smile.

As her eyes traced the route of the stream, her smile faded and her mouth opened gently. At first she was puzzled and uncertain. Then the cold shaft of apprehension and horror pierced her heart. Gingerly, she took a step forward, her high heels sinking into the soft damp earth, and, screwing up her eyes, peered at one certain section of the stream. She stared hard, frozen to the spot. Surely she was imagining it.

‘What are you doing?’ Martin had come up behind her and although his query was spoken softly and couched in a pleasant tone, his close proximity shocked her and she stumbled forward, almost losing her balance.

‘Whoa, lady, I told you to be careful,’ he said, grabbing her arms and pulling her backwards on to slightly firmer ground.

‘Martin,’ she murmured, a tremble in her voice. ‘Down there.’ She pointed towards the stream. ‘Look.’

‘What you on about?’

‘Look,’ she repeated with some urgency.

He did look and although he said nothing she could tell from his hardened features that he had seen it too.

Eventually Brenda mouthed the thought that was in both their minds.

‘Is she dead?’

Martin shook his head rapidly as though to dismiss the matter. ‘It’s just a bunch of old clothes,’ he said, but there was no conviction in his voice.

‘It’s not,’ she said. ‘It’s … it’s a body.’

‘Well, even if it is, it’s got nothing to do with us.’

Brenda stared at him in shocked disbelief. ‘What are you talking about? We can’t just leave it there. Ignore it.’

‘We can. We must.’

‘You can. I can’t,’ she said. ‘They might be alive. I’m going down there.’ She moved further to the edge of the slope.

‘Don’t be so daft. You’ll hurt yourself.’

‘We’ve got to go down, Martin.’

He groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. He knew she was right but he didn’t want to do it. Whatever the consequences it meant trouble. The police. People would find out. His wife would find out. Find out what he was doing with a woman in the woods. All hell would break loose.

Brenda tugged his arm. ‘Look, over there, there’s a bit of a track going down. It’s steep but I reckon we could make it.’

Martin followed her glance and saw the shiny snail-like path that wound its way through the tufts of yellow grass down to the stream just a few yards from where the body lay.

‘I’ll go,’ he grunted. It was the last thing on earth he wanted to do.

‘And I’m coming with you,’ she said firmly.

He was about to reply but held his tongue, for he knew that there was no arguing with the silly bitch.

Together they made their way slowly down the muddy path, carefully gauging each foothold. Brenda slipped once and fell on her backside, but she managed to grasp a tuft of grass to stop her slithering all the way to the bottom. Eventually they reached the banks of the little stream without further mishap.

‘You OK?’ he asked, breathlessly, holding his hand out to help her make the final steps to the water’s edge.

With her makeup awry, a sweaty face and a mud-smeared dress she looked and felt far from OK, but she nodded.

As they approached the little figure lying in the stream they could see that it was a young girl. She was dressed in a bright yellow dress – a party dress, thought Brenda – which complemented her blonde curls. She lay immobile, face down in the water.

‘My God, she is dead,’ said Brenda, stifling a sob.

Martin bent down by the body and with some effort turned it over.

Brenda screamed when she saw the little girl’s face. It was covered in blood and her features were disfigured as though she had been badly beaten.

‘Oh, my God,’ sobbed Brenda. ‘The poor thing’s been murdered.’

Martin leaned against the wall of the telephone box as he dialled 999. Brenda stood in the doorway, shivering and distraught. The box was dank and smelled of urine and sweat. Felt-tip obscenities decorated the window.

‘Emergency, which service?’ It was a woman’s voice, tinny and remote.

‘The police, I want to report …’ He paused, his mouth dry and his mind in a whirl. He couldn’t believe what he was about to say. ‘I want to report … a murder.’

‘I’m putting you through,’ came the reply – cool, calm and neutral.

‘Police. How can I help you?’ It was a man this time.

‘There’s been a murder. A little girl. In Mollicar Woods. She’s in the stream. Dead.’

‘And what’s your name, sir?’

‘You don’t want my name. You need to get the police to Mollicar Woods. A young girl. About eight or nine. Been killed. Beaten.’

‘And who are you, sir?’

Martin was about to slam down the receiver when Brenda moved forward and pressed her body against his. ‘You’ve got to tell them, Martin. They’ll only find out and then it’ll be the worse for us.’

He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the telephone ready to replace the receiver.

‘Go on,’ Brenda urged. ‘If you don’t, I will.’

Martin closed his eyes in despair and placed the receiver to his ear. ‘My name is Martin Brook,’ he said, his voice flat and unemotional.

FOUR

Paul Snow woke abruptly, his body arched awkwardly under the covers, bathed in sweat. It was the dream again. The nightmare. The same bloody nightmare. Even after a year it came back to taunt him, to unsettle him. To take him to the brink and remind him of his sins. He felt the gun in his hand. He heard the crack as he pulled the trigger and he saw the shock and look of horror on the dying man’s face.

But it was Snow, not the dying man, who cried out in agony at what he had done and the cry dragged him back to consciousness. He lay for a few moments staring at the ceiling until his pulse rate had returned to normal. It must have been that conversation he’d had with Bob about murderers being crazy that had stimulated the nightmare again. Well, not so much a nightmare as a reminder of the time when he had killed a man in cold blood to save his own neck.

He lay in the darkness, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal, which it did after a little while. Accepting that this was all the sleep he was going to get that night – or indeed wanted that night, if it meant returning to these disturbing dreams – Snow sat up in bed, switched on the bedside light and reached for a pack of cigarettes and lighter.

He lay against the pillow, smoking and trying to turn his thoughts away from the nightmare, but the images remained, vibrant and fierce at the forefront of his mind. He heard the gun going off once more, the sound echoing in his head like the shutting of an iron door at the end of a long dark corridor. He grimaced more out of irritation at his own weakness than at the unpleasant memories these sensations provoked.

Stubbing his cigarette out with a heavy sigh, he threw back the covers, got out of bed, slipped on his dressing gown and padded downstairs to the kitchen, where he made himself a cup of strong instant coffee. Holding the warm mug in both hands, he sat in the gloom at the kitchen table as daylight gradually seeped into the room. At length shafts of sunlight formed pools of yellow light on the floor.

It was going to be a nice day.

Weatherwise, at least.

After a second coffee and another cigarette, Snow began to feel more relaxed or at least his old self. He never considered that at any time in his life he was ‘relaxed’; his brain was too active to allow for that state of affairs. His mind was never in ‘neutral’; there was always something to think about.

And something to worry about.

Living alone, a solitary man, Paul was conscious of all his actions, monitoring his behaviour, his reactions to and treatment of others. It was as though he was constantly standing outside his own body observing himself. He was always on the alert to repress his feelings. Feelings that were not regarded as ‘normal’. These were dangerous – as he had found out in the past – and could easily spell the end of the career that he loved. He had to remain firmly in the closet. The poet John Donne had said that no man was an island. Well, thought Paul, I’m out to prove him wrong.