Blood Axe (16 page)

36

A weapon that killed
deserved the honour of a name. Now that his blade had proved its worth, he named it Biter. It was a good name for an axe. Although his arm ached to wave a sword, he knew that a long blade would be almost impossible to conceal in public. Sooner or later it would mean his capture, betrayed by the very weapon that should protect him. Such a fate must be avoided at all costs; falling into the hands of his enemies would result in ignominy. To die in captivity was a shameful end for a warrior whose destiny was a glorious death in battle. He was a mighty warrior, a shape-shifter. Prowling the streets as a wolf, in the heat of battle he became a bear. Why should his axe not change shape too, and become a sword?

It was time to sharpen the blade. Every time he held Biter in his hand he risked discovery, but he had no choice. As a warrior, he was trained to attack; his weapon must be ready for battle too. He had used it several times, concealing it swiftly once his mission was completed. Fear of discovery must not threaten his success. Slashing through bone had blunted Biter's cutting edge. He wouldn't risk his life, and more importantly his honour, by letting the blade rust, dishonoured in a forgotten hiding place. He had to make sure Biter was ready for the next raid. There was no time to waste. The moon god would not help him with this task. It had to be done in darkness. None but his victims would ever thrill at the sight of his weapon outlined against the night sky. With Biter in his grasp he was invincible. Without Biter he was naked.

The wolf ran on its hind legs. Speed and silence were its protection. If anyone attacked the beast, it could slash a man's throat with its powerful jaws. But no one challenged him. He ran swiftly along the pavement, passing unseen through the night. Reaching his destination, he glanced around, peering through the darkness, alert to the slightest sound. Satisfied, he let the wolf slip away and he was a man once more, tall and bold. It was time to feel Biter in his hand again. He was only complete when he had his weapon in his hand. Without Biter he was a cripple, a weak woman.

Quickly he made his way along the river path. Having made sure no one was watching, he pulled at a loose panel in the wall until it shifted to one side, allowing his shadow to slip through. His boat lay waiting patiently in the ditch. He crouched and scrabbled in the earth, until his searching fingers closed on the wooden handle. It felt warm in his palm, the cold blade harsh on his skin. He shivered at its beauty. A warrior was only as effective as his weapon. Biter could not only kill at a single well-aimed blow, it offered him the protection of the gods. But only if the blade was razor sharp

To begin with he had taken Biter home with him and sharpened it in his room. Conscious that every journey he undertook with his weapon beneath his cloak was dangerous, he resolved to take it out of hiding only when using it for its proper purpose. So instead of moving the axe, he packed his tools in a rucksack. Slinging the heavy bag over his shoulder, he stole down to the river and worked on the blade at night, when the path was deserted. No one could hear him working there, concealed behind the wall. It was a lengthy process. First he cleaned and polished the blade with steel wool to remove any vestiges of dried blood and other detritus left over from his last kill. Then he rubbed it firmly with sandpaper. To make sure it was properly clean, he went over it again with a finer, gritty sandpaper until it felt really smooth. Using a rag, he applied metal polishing paste before clamping the blade with a vice to one of the posts on the wall. Even with the axe fixed in position, he was careful, aware of the danger if his hand slipped.

It took hours to file the blade using broad strokes that strained the muscles all the way along his arm. He filed one side, then the other, then repeated the process again. Frowning with concentration, he focussed on his task. Now and again he paused, his heartbeat accompanied by the pounding of footsteps as occasionally, on the other side of the wall, he heard someone running along the river path. From time to time he heard voices approach and waited, motionless, his arm poised, until the strangers had walked by. Bicycles were the worst threat as they passed without a sound. When he was sure the path was clear, he would resume sharpening his axe. Happy in his task, he felt like singing, but he kept quiet. He could be careful as well as bold. Concealment was essential to his success. The gods would not protect a man from his own foolishness. It took several nights. By the time he was finished, his shoulders and arms ached, but it was worth the effort. Biter was sharp as a razor, sharp enough to slice through bone.

37

George's face was
pinched with worry. His sharp chin and pointed nose seemed to stick out more than ever. Remembering his nickname, The Wizard, Ian wished George would work some magic and come up with an identity, but George appeared to know even less than they did about the killer.

‘You think the killer's using an axe stolen at the Viking Festival?' he repeated at last.

‘We already suspected something along those lines had been used,' Ian said. ‘The post mortem indicated an unusual blade, not quite like axes you can get nowadays. And the missing axe had a rune engraved on the blade that appears to match a pattern found on a bruise on the first victim.'

‘So you think the axe used in these two murders was the one stolen from the Festival?' the profiler repeated. ‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes,' Ian replied. ‘As sure as we can be, that is. The evidence points that way. Our research indicates such a blade is unusual. And the murders began shortly after the Festival.'

‘We're as certain as we can be without absolute proof,' Eileen added, with a touch of uncertainty.

There was a pause. They could all see the profiler was disturbed by this news, although it wasn't yet clear why it had affected him.

‘What's all the fuss?' Naomi muttered. ‘An axe is an axe. If we don't know who stole the axe from the Festival, what difference does it make if that's the one the killer used?' She stared out of the window, idly smoothing her hair down.

Ian was disappointed by the constable's apparent lack of interest. He was impressed by George's logical insights, and keen to hear what he had to say. He turned back to the profiler, who had begun to speak again.

‘Someone steals an axe from the Viking Festival and starts slicing people up with it,' he said in his clipped voice.

‘Yes, that's what we just told you,' Naomi said impatiently.

Ian frowned at her. To be fair to her, George was just repeating what he had been told, but they had to allow him time to piece together the scraps of information they were throwing at him, until he could make sense of it.

‘Well, I'm afraid it sounds to me as though our killer may be playing at Vikings,' George said at last.

‘What do you mean?' Ted asked, scowling under his overhanging brows. ‘What do you mean, he's playing at Vikings?'

George shook his head. ‘I've no idea,' he admitted, ‘and yet it does all kind of make sense.'

‘Go on,' Ian urged him.

He thought he had grasped what George meant, but wanted to be sure. Anyone who thought they could see some sense in what was happening deserved their attention.

George nodded at Ian. ‘The killer – let's not try to analyse why at this stage, we may never fully understand it – the killer steals an axe, a Viking axe, in the melee at the Festival. This is a replica Viking axe we're talking about. It may not have been very sharp, but that could be rectified. All the same, stealing it wasn't going to be easy. For a start there would have been some risk of discovery. Then the owner was a big chap. He wasn't likely to let his axe go without a fight if he noticed what the thief was up to. The axe cost him a fair amount. The question is, why would someone want to use that particular weapon, when it might be easier and less risky to get hold of an axe somewhere else. Axes are not that hard to come by. Why steal that one?'

Eileen nodded. ‘Go to a different area; wear a hat or a minimal disguise; pay cash.'

‘Exactly,' George continued. ‘Any adult can get hold of an axe. So, with a replica Viking axe – obtained at some risk – the killer sharpens the blade and brutally attacks his victims, robbing them, like a marauding Viking. The original theft might have been opportunistic, but what happened after that is deliberate. He wanted a Viking axe, one that couldn't lead us to him, because he's acting out being a Viking.'

‘Why?' someone asked.

George shrugged.

‘That's why he took their metal,' Ian said.

‘What metal?'

Ian could hardly contain his excitement. The profiler's suggestion made sense of something that had been puzzling him.

‘The killer stole gold and silver from a jewellery shop, and he stole coins from Angela, but left the notes in her purse. He's only interested in metal.'

‘Precious metals like gold and silver were valued by the Vikings,' George agreed, his eyes meeting Ian's in mutual understanding. ‘That was their currency. Paper money didn't exist.'

Naomi looked up from her phone. ‘Paper money was first used around the seventh century in China, but it didn't reach Europe until much later,' she said.

‘The Vikings didn't use paper currency,' Ian repeated, turning back to George. ‘The killer's playing at being a Viking on a raid. I see what you mean.'

‘So all we need to do is find a man in a horned helmet wielding a bloody axe, and the case is solved,' Naomi said with a short laugh.

‘The Vikings didn't wear horned helmets,' George said solemnly. ‘That's a fallacy.'

‘But they were violent,' Ian added. ‘They did use axes in battle, and they stole precious metals on their raids.'

Ian and Eileen exchanged an anxious glance.

Ted looked worried. ‘Are you telling us we're dealing with a psychopath who's fantasising that he's some kind of Viking on a raid?'

‘If my suspicions are correct – and remember these are only suppositions based on the nature of the weapon – but if I'm right, then that might be what's happening, yes,' George replied.

‘You mean, he thinks he's carrying out some sort of normal Viking activity by killing people and stealing their money and jewellery?' Naomi asked. Her earlier scepticism had vanished and she sounded interested in the theory.

George looked at her solemnly. ‘I'm no expert on the Vikings. You'd have to research the subject. But yes, that's what I'm putting forward as a theory. I have to stress that I'm no expert on the subject. This is just an idea.'

‘They know all about them at Jorvik,' Ted said.

‘The obvious place for someone to spend their time if they're interested in Vikings?' George asked. It wasn't really a question.

Ian decided to return to the museum and find out if they had any serial visitors.

‘It could be someone who works there,' George added thoughtfully.

Ian told them what Andrew had said about talking to a couple of people who worked at Jorvik just before his axe went missing. It was pure speculation, yet it all seemed to fit. Promising to give some thought to the killer's possible motivation, and research the subject of Viking killings further, George left. All he had been able to tell them with any certainty was that they were looking for a strange and violent killer.

‘Killing is always strange,' Ian replied.

‘And violent,' Eileen added.

After the profiler had taken his leave, Ian and his colleagues strolled down to the pub outside the police station to have a quick pint and continue the discussion. Ian was taken with the notion that they were dealing with a lunatic who, for some reason, had convinced himself that he was a Viking.

‘But why?' Ted wanted to know. ‘Why would anyone in their right mind do anything so bloody weird?'

Ian shrugged. ‘I'd hardly call these killings the actions of someone who's in their right mind.' He understood that Ted was irritated at how little they knew. ‘Why would anyone ever want to kill anyone else?'

Ted took the rhetorical question seriously.

‘All sorts of reasons. You know that as well as I do. Jealousy, anger, greed, the whole gamut of human vice. But why would someone pretend to be a Viking, and take coins but leave all notes behind? I still don't get it.'

George's answers raised more questions than they answered. But one thing seemed clear to Ian. If George was right, they needed to find the axe man quickly. The reason they hadn't been able to find anything to link the two victims was that the attacks had been random. The killer wasn't selective. He had killed two random strangers simply in order to rob them, and he had done so without any scruples. On the contrary, he probably believed his actions were honourable. That meant that, if they didn't stop him, he was likely to kill again.

Ian turned to Ted. ‘It's not always easy to understand why people do these things,' he said.

‘Isn't that
his
job?' Naomi asked, nodding her head in the direction of the police station. ‘He's supposed to be the profiler, but he didn't tell us anything about the killer.'

Ian didn't agree, and he said so.

‘So what you're saying is, the more people he kills, the more likely he is to get to Valhalla or wherever it was the Vikings believed their top warriors went?' Ted asked.

‘Something like that, yes.'

‘I can't believe you two. You're talking about bloody Vikings for Christ's sake!' Naomi burst out, exasperated. ‘This is the twenty-first century. No one goes around committing bloody murders in some crazy belief that it's saving their own souls!'

‘I'm not so sure about that,' Ian said quietly.

‘All George has told us is he thinks the killer may have some kind of delusion that he's a Viking,' Naomi replied, ‘or he's pretending to be one at any rate. So what? How does that help us? Unless he really is running around with a horned helmet on his head, we've got no way of knowing who he is. It could be anyone.'

Ian sighed. That was the problem.

‘We need to go back to Jorvik,' he said. ‘There are a few more questions to ask. Only this time we need to be aware that one of the staff there could be our Viking axe man.'

‘Anyone could be our Viking axe man,' Ted replied gloomily.