Innocent Blood (12 page)

Paul Snow woke the following morning with a thick head and a sense of unease. Two paracetemol, a strong coffee and a fierce shower helped to clear his head somewhat, but the feelings of dark anxiety persisted. He had no idea what he was going to do about the Colin Bird situation, but what concerned him all the more was he didn’t know what Colin Bird was going to do about him. He remembered snatches of the conversation from the previous evening, particularly Bird’s assurance that ‘I don’t intend to leave you alone, Mr Snow.’ As those words echoed in his head, Paul’s stomach tightened and he felt queasy.

By the time he reached the office, the habit of focusing on the day’s events had helped him shift his concerns regarding Colin Bird to the back of his mind, particularly when he saw a brown envelope on his desk marked ‘urgent’. It contained the two photographs taken from the caravan by Sean Quigley of forensics. There was a brief report indicating that there were fingerprints on the pictures but there was no match in the police records. Snow gazed at the photograph of the girl on her own. She must be a member of the Marsdale Choir, one of those killed in the crash. Somehow he knew that her identity was crucial.

Half an hour later, Snow was parking his car outside Thomas Niven’s house in Marsden. It was not quite yet nine o’clock. He hoped the old boy would be up.

He was not only up but was fully dressed and was already tackling the
Daily Telegraph
crossword. Radio Three was playing quietly in the background as Snow was led into the sitting room once more.

‘I didn’t expect to see you again – or at least so soon,’ Niven said, slumping down in his chair. ‘What is it this time?’

‘I just wondered if you could identify someone for me: the girl in this photograph.’ He withdrew the print from the envelope and passed it to Niven, who slipped his gold-rimmed glasses on the end of his nose and studied it.

It did not take him long to respond. ‘Why, that’s Debbie Hirst. I was telling you about her last time you came. Well, not so much about her, but her mother. You know … she was the one who topped herself by jumping off the bridge on the M62. The grief really got to her. Terrible it was. Mind you, I felt sorry for her husband: to lose both girls, as it were, within a few months. I really don’t know how he coped.’

Paul Snow and Bob Fellows stood by the gate and stared at the semi-detached house. In many ways, it was no different from the other ordinary properties down this ordinary road. A little shabby, a little mundane, with a garden in need of attention. But there were differences. All the curtains were drawn, both upstairs and down; there were six milk bottles crowding on the front step; some post was seen sticking out of the letterbox; and there was rubbish and debris down the path which had no doubt blown there but had not been removed by the owner. It had all the appearances of being neglected, deserted, abandoned.

As the two policeman made their way down the path, stepping over the detritus and dog dirt, a woman appeared at the front door of the neighbouring property. She was a stout woman in her fifties, wearing a tight grey skirt and an equally tight red sweater which emphasised her generous breasts. No doubt, thought Snow, she thought she looked glamorous rather than blousy.

‘You’ll get no reply there,’ she called. ‘He’s gone. Done a flit, I should imagine. Haven’t seen him in weeks.’

‘You are …?’ enquired Snow, stepping across the squishy lawn towards the woman. His rather authoritative and educated manner threw the woman for a moment and she stepped back into her hallway. Snow stood by the rickety wooden fence which divided the gardens and held up his ID. ‘Police,’ he said gently, not wanting to frighten the woman further. ‘Mrs? …’ he prompted again.

‘Fletcher. Is there a problem?’

‘Not necessarily,’ replied Snow easily. We’re just wanting to get in touch with Frank Hirst.’

The woman shook her head vigorously, her straggly hair whipping across her forehead. ‘As I said, I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him for weeks. And not much before that. He went right into his shell after … you know his wife topped herself, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that was after poor Debbie, his daughter, was killed in a crash. A real tragedy.’

Snow nodded.

‘It hit him real bad. Could hardly get a “good morning” out of him after. He looked ill, like he needed to see a doctor.’

‘How well did you know him?’

Mrs Fletcher screwed up her face. ‘Not that much. Just a nodding acquaintance really. I mean we never were in and out of each other’s houses or anything like that. I thought she was a bit stuck up, if I’m honest. But we chatted about the weather and such and took in the occasional parcel.’

‘When you said that you thought Frank – Mr Hirst – looked like he should seek medical attention, what did you mean exactly?’

Mrs Fletcher thought for a moment, her face twitching as though she was having difficulty marshalling her thoughts. ‘It’s … it’s just something I sensed really,’ she said eventually. ‘He gave off odd vibes, like. As I say I didn’t see much of him after his wife’s death but when I did, he looked like a robot, like that Frankenstein monster, walking all stiff and mechanical.’ She gave a brief demonstration. ‘If I spoke to him, said “Morning” or “How you doing?” it took him ages to reply and then I couldn’t quite catch what he was saying. It’s as though his brain wasn’t quite in gear. I think he was going a bit loopy. To be honest, in the end I avoided him.’

‘And you’ve no idea where he is now?’

Mrs Fletcher shook her head once more, hair flying freely. ‘Certainly haven’t. I just noticed one day all the curtains drawn and that was it. We stopped the milkman delivering after a week. Has he been up to no good or something?’

‘We just want to ask him a few questions.’

‘Well, you won’t get any answers in there.’ She nodded towards the house and then as a thought struck her, she emitted a sharp cry. ‘Oh, my God, you don’t think he’s topped himself, do you? That he’s lying dead in there … bloody hell!’

‘No, we don’t think that. There’s no need to get alarmed.’

‘Says you,’ snapped Mrs Fletcher, hugging herself. ‘You don’t know for sure.’

Snow decided to direct the conversation away from this particular avenue of thought.

‘I don’t suppose you have a spare key to the house?’

‘No, I don’t! Why should I?’

Snow shrugged. ‘Sometimes neighbours swap keys – to water plants, feed pets on holidays. Stuff like that.’

‘Not us round here. We like to keep our homes private.’

‘Well, thanks for your help.’ Snow smiled but did not turn to go, keeping his gaze on her until, unnerved by his stare, she retreated into the house, slamming the door behind her.

Bob Fellows chuckled as his boss joined him by the front door.

‘Bit of a dragon, eh?’ he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

‘But an informative one. Well, looks like we’re going to have to indulge in a little breaking and entering. I think this is where your shoulder comes into its own, Sergeant. If you would be so kind as to apply it to the door with some force.’

‘You serious?’

‘Do you know any quicker way to gain entry?’

‘Maybe not. But why me? You’re the senior officer.’

Snow smiled. ‘Exactly. That’s why I’m giving the orders. Beside, not to put too fine a point on it, you are a bit bulkier than me.’

Bob Fellows grunted. ‘Thanks a million.’

Snow stood aside to give his colleague room to make his assault.

Taking a deep breath and moving a few paces back, Bob Fellows hurled himself at the door. It shook but did not give. ‘Ouch,’ he cried. ‘That hurt.’

‘You’ll get it next time,’ said Snow, failing to keep his face completely straight.

Fellows tried again. This time there was the sound of splintering wood, but the door still remained in place. Now Bob tried a different approach. He lifted up his right foot and slammed his size elevens against the lock. This did the trick. The door shuddered, the noise reverberating in the air around them. And then with a sharp crack the door sprang wide open.

Snow patted his sergeant on the back. ‘Good man. No one is going to throw sand in your face.’

Bob Fellows rolled his eyes but smiled.

The two men entered the house and immediately their demeanour changed. There was a decided atmosphere which assailed them as soon as they made their way down the hall. The place was cold and there was a faint smell of damp in the air, but it was more than this that contributed to the unpleasantness of the environment. It was also the eerie silence and strange sense of sadness which, although intangible, was experienced by both men. They both shivered involuntarily as they entered the sitting room.

‘Crikey,’ exclaimed Fellows, gazing around him, ‘it looks like he was camping out in his own front room.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Snow, surveying the room. There was a little oil stove by the fireplace, around the base of which was a collection of empty cans, mainly soup and baked beans. Dirty plates containing scraps of congealed food and discarded cutlery were scattered around the room, while a sleeping bag lay abandoned on the giant sofa and two full ashtrays were balanced on tiled fender.

‘It’s as though he couldn’t bear to use the rest of the house,’ observed Snow.

‘Too many memories.’

‘Yes. Understandable in one sense, but an extreme reaction nonetheless.’

‘Well, if he’s the guy we’re after, these are the least of his extreme reactions.’

Snow nodded solemnly.

‘What do you really think it’s all about, sir?’

‘I can only surmise but the evidence, which is growing by the day,’ he gestured to the shambolic contents of the room, ‘suggests that the death of both his daughter and his wife caused Frank Hirst to lose his marbles. In his newly acquired twisted logic, he blames all his ills on the coach crash. He lost his daughter through that and then indirectly his wife. She couldn’t face up to life without her precious kid, so she commits suicide. So he has a grudge. A big, all-consuming grudge.’

‘Against whom? I mean the logical target would be the driver of the coach. He caused the crash – or that’s how it seems, reading between the lines. But he’s dead. Who’s left to blame?’

Snow shrugged. ‘In an unbalanced mind, just about anyone. The chap at the garage who filled the van up with petrol; the people who organised the choir competition in the first place. But he targets … the survivors.’

‘What on earth can he blame them for?’

Snow laid a friendly hand on Bob’s shoulder. ‘For surviving. For escaping the fate that was meted out to his beloved daughter and then to his wife.’

‘Really?’ The sergeant raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘That’s crazy.’

‘Well, that’s your theory about murderers, isn’t it? No logic involved.’

‘Well, yes …’

‘But actually, I can see some logic in this plan, if I’m right about the motive, that is. Hirst feels mightily aggrieved. His whole world has collapsed in on him. Who can he blame? Who can he hurt as a kind of revenge? The driver of the coach is dead, so it has to be someone else. Someone to suffer like he has and his two loved ones who have lost their life. And he chooses those that had the luck, the temerity, to survive. Why should they go on living when …?’

‘My God! That’s awful. It’s awful because … well, it is crazy but logical as well. Bloody crazy logic, like.’

‘We’ll soon know for certain, Bob. We’re closing in on him now. Let’s take a gander upstairs.’

A thin layer of dust covered everything on the upper floor. Everything was neat and tidy. The beds were made, the towels were carefully folded in the bathroom and clothes hung neatly in the wardrobes. The exception was the little girl’s room which was untidy and, apart from the dust, looked as though she had just left it. The covers of the bed were rumpled and some magazines lay on the floor; an LP was on the record player ready to be played. It was a bit like a museum in honour of his daughter, thought Snow.

‘It’s as though he hasn’t actually been up here for ages,’ observed Bob as they moved into the main bedroom.

‘Since the death of his wife, no doubt. We saw that he had taken to sleeping in the lounge. He obviously neglected this upper storey because it was part of his past. It was filled with too many ghosts. We’d better get the SOCO boys to give this a thorough going over. In the meantime, we need to get a photograph of our Mr Hirst circulated in the press and on the TV. Someone will know where he is. The fellow can’t be invisible. Somewhere he is hiding out, planning his next move.’

‘He’s bound to be getting desperate now, especially as we’ve got the two girls under surveillance.’

‘Too true. That’s what worries me. When a cunning violent murderer becomes desperate he takes terrible risks and becomes even more unpredictable.’

That night Colin Bird went to Sherwood’s again. He was never nervous about his visits. He possessed an arrogance that allowed him to feel protected. If any shit were to hit the fan, he would certainly walk away unscathed. Like Snow, he hid his homosexuality because he wanted to keep his job but in all other respects he was careless. Deliberately so. Normally, when he came to the club, he was on the prowl, ready to pick up someone for the night. He enjoyed sex and he was not too fussy with whom he indulged. Not now, anyway. There had been lots of one-night stands but only one fairly serious affair which had ended unhappily when his partner, Brian, a married man, had committed suicide. For a while, following this tragic event, Bird’s world went into freefall. He started drinking and taking up the promiscuous lifestyle. Brian’s death had scarred him for life. Never a sentimental nor even a passionate man, he had been surprised how devastated he had been at the loss of Brian. He hadn’t realised at the time, not until it was too late, that it had been love: an emotion that had been alien to him. It had scarred him and, although he did not realise it, had unbalanced him also.

And here he was again, feeling something akin to love once more. He had been in the company of Paul Snow just a few hours, but he knew that he was the man for him. It certainly helped that he not only looked a little like Brian but also had that same gentle sense of reserve and enticing smile, when he could be coaxed into showing it. The fact that he was playing hard to get increased his attraction.