Blood Axe (11 page)

23

A tracker dog
had been brought in to try and trace the killer's route from the shop. It wasn't proving easy to establish the relevant scent from the mass of potential evidence at the scene. Many people had visited the shop the previous day. When Ian arrived, a handler was leading a German shepherd round the shop where it was sniffing at all the display cabinets that had been disturbed.

‘We've already followed a couple of false leads,' the dog handler told him cheerfully. ‘But they did take us to customers who visited the shop yesterday,' he added in defence of his animal. ‘We're going to try the victim. It might be easier to track his head, assuming the killer carried it away with him. And if it doesn't get us to the killer, we might at least recover the missing head.'

He dragged the dog over to the patch of blood that had dried on the carpet. After sniffing at the stain for a minute, the dog raised his head and barked.

‘Here we go again,' the handler said, smiling as though he was off on a ramble. ‘Want to come along?'

Ian nodded. Together they followed the dog out of the shop. It wasn't easy negotiating the streets with the dog straining at its lead. It led them away from the centre of town, down towards the river. Reaching the path, the dog gathered speed so the handler had to tug at its lead to slow it down. All at once, the dog halted and barked.

‘Something happened here,' the handler said, as though he could interpret what the dog had communicated.

Looking down beside the path, Ian saw straight away what the handler meant. The grass had been disturbed. A few twigs had been flattened and shattered by some heavy object that had been dragged across the ground, down to the water.

‘The bastard got away by boat,' the handler said. ‘There's no way we can track him beyond this point. Bugger. Pluto's the best, nothing gets past him, but this killer's no fool. He knew we'd be on to him and he's covered his tracks, escaping on the water.'

Ian frowned. It looked as though they were going to have to dredge the river. He called Eileen to let her know what had been discovered, and suggested the killer might have discarded the stolen head when he reached the river.

‘I can't see why,' she replied. ‘I mean, why take it away with him if he was going to chuck it away?'

Although he suspected Eileen might be concerned about the cost of dredging, Ian agreed it was unlikely they would find the missing head abandoned in the water. There was no point throwing money at the case for no reason. But at least they now knew how the killer had escaped, even if they were no closer to finding him. In the meantime, an expert boat builder had arrived to examine the site where they believed the killer had entered the water. A wiry grey-haired man, he stared at the muddy ground beside the river and shook his grizzled head.

‘Well, I can't tell you much from this,' he concluded at last. ‘From the tracks it looks like he used a flat bottomed boat, some sort of dinghy I'd say. That's just an informed guess, mind, from the ground cover being crushed smooth like that. It doesn't look like a rudder was dragged through it. But it happened last night, didn't it? A lot can change overnight. This evidence here could have been seriously compromised since the killer made his get away.'

Listening to his jargon, Ian suspected the boat builder was a fan of detective series on television.

‘Can you be more specific about what sort of boat it was?'

The boat builder laughed gruffly. ‘You don't want much, do you? You'll be asking me who owned it next.'

‘Wouldn't it have to be registered?'

The boat builder scowled. ‘You should know that. I thought you were a police officer. No, privately owned open boats like dinghies don't need to be registered, unless they're carrying more than a dozen passengers, and this one would have been too small to do that without attracting notice.'

Ian seized on the snippet of information, casually thrown out.

‘How small? Can you estimate the size of it?'

The boat builder shook his head. ‘You'd need to measure the deeper indentation here, and here – it looks as though the boat was left standing right here for a few minutes, maybe longer, whereas over here, see, it was just pulled across the ground without resting in any one place.'

He pointed to the traces by the path, and a deeper indentation further away that indicated the boat's dimensions were approximately five metres long. It was a very rough estimate, but it gave them something to go on. All officials on the river were notified to be on the alert for any suspicious crafts matching that description.

‘Suspicious how?' the officer sending out the message wanted to know.

Ian hesitated. ‘We're looking for a boat that might be concealed…' He paused, aware how ridiculous that sounded.

‘In a boat house, you mean?' she asked patiently.

‘Yes, that's certainly a possibility.' He paused. ‘We're specifically looking for a boat that has blood stains.'

It was just feasible that someone on the river might have noticed something unusual. Meanwhile, it was hardly reassuring to realise that the killer was clever enough to make his escape from a crowded city centre, not only without attracting attention, but without leaving any tracks. He had simply slipped on to the water and vanished. Realistically, unless he had somehow drawn attention to himself in the darkness, there was no way of telling in which direction he had made his escape. Even if an observer recalled seeing a boat slip into the water at this precise location along the bank, no one was going to be able to give a description of the boatman, or tell where the vessel had ended up. It was hopeless, but they had to explore every possible avenue.

‘Send out an urgent message,' Ian said.

For all the good it would do, he might just as well have asked the officer to cast a line in the river and fish for the missing head.

24

It was a good
haul, not bad for one night's work, a great addition to his stock of treasures. It was a pity he had been forced to jettison the third sack. In some ways that bag had contained the most precious cargo of all, but that particular trophy wouldn't have lasted long. He had done well to abandon it, keeping only the loot that would endure. Having stowed the boat out of sight, he carried his spoils home, doing his best to prevent the metal items from jangling against each other inside the bags. Any clue might lead to his downfall, but no one saw him hurrying along the street, or spied him on the stairs inside his house. That was the most dangerous place of all, because the staircase was well lit and there was nowhere to run if he was seen. Concealed beneath his cloak, he hoped the bags would be mistaken for shopping. He had slipped them inside plastic carrier bags for that purpose, but there was no way of knowing what other people might suspect. He was relieved when he reached the safety of his own room unseen.

As soon as his door was shut, he leapt in the shower and scrubbed his face. All the blood vanished down the plug hole, along with the blood he washed off his hands. Not his own blood. Stepping out of the shower he scrutinised himself in the mirror: sturdy, muscular, triumphant. Satisfied that he had removed all traces of his night's work he returned to his own room, checked the door was locked and settled down to check his haul. It turned out to be even better than he had realised. In the heat of the raid he had snatched whatever he could get his hands on, without pausing to examine what he was taking. Now at leisure, he studied each individual item.

With a thrill of possession he gazed at intricately wrought pieces of shiny metalwork. Bright gems glowed in the electric light. He had never seen so many beautiful ornaments before, and they all belonged to him. His battle-scarred hands trembled. It was a beautiful sight, well worth all his exertion, and the risks he had taken. On a crazy impulse, he tossed a handful of gems in the air and watched them spin twinkling to the floor in a gorgeous array of gleaming colours. He picked up a sapphire ring and slipped it on his little finger. It shone brightly, winking up at him. Fishing through the pile, he found a gold ring large enough to fit on his index finger. One by one he selected rings to fit each of his fingers. They shone golden and silver. A slow smile relaxed his jaw. It was over, his glorious mission accomplished. He had succeeded.

He hid his loot in a round tin concealed under the floor beneath his bed. He had loosened a floorboard for the purpose. With difficulty he manoeuvred the tin out from its hiding place and put it on his bed. Lifting the lid, he stared at the contents stolen from a woman on the street: a watch, a chain, coins and a few rings. That was a small hoard compared to what he had gathered in tonight's raid. If this carried on, he would soon need a larger tin. Laying his spoils gently back in the tin, he closed the lid and returned it to its hiding place. Muttering a quick prayer in thanksgiving and celebration, he flopped back on the bed. Only his aching muscles and a stinging scratch on his temple remained as mementoes of his glorious exploits that night.

25

The following morning,
Ian left for work before Bev was up. For a moment he stood by the bed, watching her familiar profile as she slept. She looked so calm when she was asleep, and so vulnerable, he felt guilty for having made her unhappy. They had barely exchanged a word since the weekend. All week he had returned home shattered and distracted, going out early in the mornings before she was up. Although she had known about his career when they married, this was the first time she hadn't complained when he returned home late in the evenings too tired to pay her the attention she wanted. He began to hope she had finally accepted their lifestyle when he was on a case.

‘I'll make it up to you when this is over, I promise,' he whispered to her sleeping figure before he left.

Half an hour later he was sitting at his desk examining his reasons for believing Gary was innocent, when Eileen summoned him to the incident room. As he made his way along the corridor, he felt more convinced than ever that Gary had neither attempted to assault Angela, nor killed her. The first allegation made no sense at all, given how eager Angela had been to persuade Gary to join her in the pub a few days later. Added to that, he could see no reason to believe Zoe's fanciful tale, and good grounds to suspect her of lying. Ted and Naomi were already in the incident room, waiting.

At first Ian wasn't sure how to react when he heard that the same axe had been used to kill both Angela and Tim. There was no longer any room for doubt. A trace of blood from a different blood group to Tim's had been isolated from the tissue in the edges of the wound on his neck. The trace was so miniscule as to be virtually impossible to identify, but sophisticated DNA testing confirmed it was Angela's. Not only were they now looking for a double murderer, but they had lost their suspect in the investigation into Angela's murder. Gary had been securely locked in a police cell the previous night, when Tim had been killed.

‘You never thought he was guilty,' Eileen said to Ian. ‘Well, you were right.' She paused. ‘Of course, there's still that rape allegation, but we're never going to make that stick, are we? Oh God, we're not getting anywhere with this. Still, we'll have to let him go. You thought he was innocent all along. You can tell him.'

Eileen seemed so tense, Ian hoped stress wasn't going to affect her judgement. However dreadful a crime might be, it was vital the investigating team remained rational. All the same, a decapitation was enough to upset anyone's equilibrium.

If Ian had felt sorry for Gary before, his pity was heightened when he saw him in his cell. He had been locked up for less than twenty-four hours, but he looked as though he hadn't washed for weeks. Perhaps he hadn't. There was a stale stench in the cell, and his greasy hair shed flecks of dandruff whenever he moved his head. He was eighteen, legally old enough to be treated as an adult. The custody sergeant had been perfectly correct in the way he had dealt with him. Yet Ian couldn't help wondering whether the right course of action had been followed. Eighteen-year-olds could be quite immature, and Gary didn't appear to be very bright. It hardly seemed fair to treat him as a responsible adult. If he had been just a few months younger, he would have been offered the company of an appropriate adult when he was questioned, someone who could give him support and advice. As it was, he looked pathetically solitary, sitting on the bunk in his cell.

‘You're free to go.'

‘What?'

Ian repeated his announcement, adding a brief explanation. Gary's response was predictably ungracious but also unexpected. He didn't even appear pleased to be told he was being released

‘You mean you locked me up in here, and left me to rot, and all you can say is it was a mistake. I should be compensated for this. You did this, you fucking arsehole. This is your fault.' He sat back on his bunk and folded his arms. ‘I'm not leaving until you agree to compensate me for…'

‘For putting you up for the night?'

‘For wrongful arrest!'

Ian pointed out that the young man had never actually been arrested. He had merely been detained for a night.

‘I demand to be compensated for the mental torment you put me through!'

Ian stared impassively at the angry youngster for a moment. He really wasn't very clever. Ian couldn't resist the temptation to call his bluff.

‘Well, I suggest you seek legal advice. But you can be sure you won't be receiving any compensation, so if you choose not to leave, that's up to you. Only I have to warn you that you could be charged with wasting police time, if you insist on staying here.'

Gary leapt clumsily to his feet in a panic as Ian pretended to leave the cell.

‘All right, all right, fucking hell, don't leave me here! I'm going, all right. But you'll be hearing from me – from my lawyer – I got a lawyer – and we're going to see you go down for this. You personally, Mr High-and-Mighty Police Inspector. I know what your name is, I made a note of it, you can be sure of that, Inspector Peterson. You're for the chop all right.'

Given the circumstances, the angry young man's choice of phrase was slightly disturbing. With a sigh, Ian turned and led him to the custody sergeant's desk.

‘Now then,' the sergeant addressed Gary cheerily, ‘let's see what you handed over.' He glanced down at Gary's feet. ‘Shoes, and was there a belt and a wallet to go with them?'

‘Yes. And you'd better not have nicked anything. I know what you lot are like. I'm going to complain and you're all going to be in trouble for what you done to me. Especially him,' he added, turning to scowl at Ian.

The sergeant had heard such ranting many times before. ‘You have the right to complain, sir, if you're not satisfied,' he responded stolidly, ‘but I think you'll find we acted within the law and you were treated fairly. Now, if you'll just sign here, you can be on your way.'

‘And we can get on with the job of finding the real killer,' Ian thought.

Releasing Gary had focussed all of their minds back on the case. There was a lot to do. They were looking for a murder weapon, a disembodied head, and an axe-wielding killer. It was a grisly list.