Blood Axe (24 page)

55

It was a mild
evening as he set off, Biter in hand. This time he went in the opposite direction to the usual one, away from the town. His fame was spreading so rapidly that the streets in the centre might be too dangerous for him to risk another raid there. Where he was heading, there would be no jewellery stores but he might come across someone on their own. Easy pickings. He strode past a couple of boats out on the river, and turned his head away from a man with a dog, several cyclists who jingled their bells at him to get out of the way, and a couple of joggers. He wasn't interested in them.

Leaving the tow path, he passed an old church, and entered a residential estate. He crossed the road to avoid a small shop and a pub, for fear of being seen, but the pavements were deserted. All he could see was row after row of houses. He had never considered breaking into a private property. Looking around, he wondered whether that might be a good idea. The trouble was, he had no way of knowing who was on the other side of the doors. The wolf could destroy a guard dog with a few snaps of his powerful jaws, but there might be more than one person to contend with in addition. It was too risky to enter unknown territory. He walked on.

As the daylight began to fade, he heard footsteps tapping a light rhythm on the pavement behind him. It sounded like a woman in high heels. Passing a side street, he slipped round the corner and waited for the pedestrian to appear. A moment later she came into view, a slight girl of about twenty with long hair that swung from side to side as she walked. She was wearing a short green coat and high-heeled shiny black shoes. Silently he glided after her. His feet barely touching the ground, he stole along with Biter concealed under his cloak, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

The woman trotted on, seemingly unaware that she was being followed. His heart pounded with the thrill of the chase. He was closing in on her. The trouble was there were houses all along the street. Someone could be watching through a window. He needed a deserted spot that wasn't overlooked, so that he could pounce. He was ready. He padded after her, his eyes flitting from side to side, checking for watchers. All at once, she turned and hurried up a path. Instead of going straight to the front door, she slipped around the corner of the building and he saw that there was a second front door at the side of the house. She must live in a maisonette on the first floor. The doorway was like an answer to a prayer, hidden from the road. The young woman thrust her hand into her bag, feeling for her keys. If he didn't act swiftly he would lose her. With one bound he was on the path. Another few steps and he was close enough to touch her. She heard his approach and looked round in surprise.

He looked into her eyes and saw her fear. Before she could utter a sound, Biter struck. It was like the first attack all over again: her eyes widening in terror, lips parting as though to scream, the only sound the impact of his blade as it struck bone. Her skull cracked, unable to withstand the momentum of his swinging arms. Blood spurted from a gash in the side of her head flowing through her hair and down her arm. With a muffled cry, she fell on to her back and lay across the path without moving. Scarlet rivulets trickled down her front door. He jumped sideways but couldn't avoid the spray completely. It reached the edges of his cloak. He suppressed a smile at the badge of honour. It was never going to be long before his new cloak was bloodied in combat.

There wasn't much risk of being spotted from the road. More pressing was the danger that there might be someone in the house, listening out for his victim's return. They could have seen her walking down the path, and heard her footsteps outside the front door. At any second the front door might be flung open, and there could be half a dozen people in there. It was unlikely, but possible. He had to work quickly to fill his bag and make his escape. The blood was flowing steadily from her head but no longer spraying around. It was safe to approach. Her eyes were shut, her lips parted. If she wasn't already dead, she was unconscious. He had no time to find out which. He didn't care anyway. It made no difference.

Deftly he slipped his gloved hand into first one pocket of her coat, then another. Both were empty. He swore softly. She had fallen on top of her bag. He tried to pull it out. The clasp had fallen downwards so that it was impossible to reach without pulling the whole bag out from under her body. Each time he pulled at it, her body jolted. Suddenly her eyes flew open. She reached out with both hands. Finding his cloak, her fingers clutched convulsively at the fabric. He abandoned his search. All he wanted to do was get away from her grasping fingers. White eyes glared at him from her blood-streaked face. Panic swept through him like a blast of cold air, making him tremble. With a muffled grunt he wrenched himself free and fled, empty-handed. He had reached the church before he realised he had left Biter behind.

All too soon they would discover the dead woman and be on his trail. He cursed the gods that had led him into this trap. He couldn't risk going back. Blindly he ran along the river path. Whatever shape he took, dogs might still be able to track him. Forcing himself to calm down, he ran towards the river. The boat was his only chance of escape. Making his way to the gap in the wall, he forced himself through, shoulder first. For once heedless of the rough edge of the wall scraping at him, he felt around for his boat and pulled it over the wall and on to the path. Panting, he dragged it down the steps to the bank and into the water. With a final effort he leaped on to the boat and let the current carry him away. He gazed out over the dark water as the boat floated out to the middle of the river. The gods had taken Biter, but he had survived. He would never be caught.

56

Eileen was very
keen to make a formal charge but she decided to wait until the morning, hoping some useful evidence would turn up by then. Meanwhile teams of officers were working through the night, hunting for proof that Ralph was guilty. A search team were busy at his flat. So far they had found nothing. Once, Ian would have gone to Ralph's flat to check on the progress of the search, keen to be on the spot in case any evidence turned up, but the focus of his life had changed. Now he only wanted to be with his wife. Leaving instructions that he was to be contacted straight away if the search team found anything incriminating, he set off home. Bev might be asleep, but his place was still with her. He had left her alone for long enough that evening. He almost hoped evidence wouldn't be found before the morning.

Bev was dozing on the sofa when he reached home. He went into the kitchen as quietly as he could, but she woke up and called to him.

‘I'm just making a cup of tea,' he replied. ‘Would you like one?'

Replacing the bottle of beer he had just taken out of the fridge, he put the kettle on.

‘Have you eaten?' she asked, coming into the kitchen.

‘Yes. Don't worry about me. You go and sit down and I'll bring your tea in to you. Would you like anything with it?'

She laughed. ‘I'm pregnant, Ian, I'm not an invalid.'

But she went back in the living room.

‘How was your day?' she asked when he took her tea in to her.

He smiled. ‘We're about to make an arrest.'

‘Shouldn't you be getting on with it then, if you know who it was? It's not like you to miss the action.'

‘Don't worry. He's safely locked up, waiting to be charged. It's one of the people working at Jorvik.'

‘You always said it would be, though I don't see why.'

‘It was just a hunch. If the killer's obsessed with the Vikings…'

‘Obsessed with the Vikings? How do you know that?'

He sighed. He was tired, and she wasn't really interested. ‘We don't know. Like I said, it's just a hunch. It doesn't matter.'

They sipped their tea in silence for a moment.

‘How was
your
day?'

She shrugged. ‘I'm pregnant. What do you expect? I was sick this morning so I went back to bed. Then I felt better so I got up and cleaned the kitchen. And that's about it, really. I was sick and I cleaned the kitchen.'

She sounded so wretched that he felt guilty. In an attempt to cheer her up he suggested they pay someone to help her in the house, just while she was pregnant. They could afford it.

‘And then what am I supposed to do all day? You're never here. There's no point in making dinner because I never know if you're going to be home in the evening...'

He switched off from the familiar complaint. From now on things were going to be different. He didn't need to tell her. She would see the change in him for herself. The thought of having a baby scared him. He wondered if she felt the same, and what their lives would be like from now on. He looked away, embarrassed by his confusion. Bev needed him to be strong now. Her whinging stopped and a moment later he heard her snoring gently. She was still holding her cup. He crept over to the sofa and lifted it gently from her hand. She opened her eyes.

‘I wasn't asleep.'

He didn't mention her snoring.

‘So, when do the classes start?' he asked, sitting next to her.

‘What classes?'

‘The antenatal classes. You know I'll be there with you whenever I can.'

‘Whenever you can?'

‘I do have a job.'

‘I know.'

He put his arm round her, drawing her close.

‘Let's not fall out. Not now. I know it's been rough for you, moving here. Maybe it was a mistake coming here. We could think about moving back.'

She twisted round so that she could look up at him, her face troubled. ‘Really? Do you really mean that?'

‘Of course. Why not? If that's what you want. Look, assuming all goes well, there's no reason why I shouldn't be able to put in for another promotion in a few years. We could settle nearer to your parents. They could babysit…'

‘A few years? Thanks, Ian. I know you're trying to be nice but you're not helping.'

She was crying again.

‘Why don't I make you a fresh cup, and fix us a snack? Do you want anything? Anything at all?'

She blew her nose. ‘There's a bottle of Pinot Grigio in the fridge.'

He held back from telling her she ought not to be drinking alcohol, afraid she would become aggressive again.

‘You look all hot and bothered. I'll get you some water.'

As he stood up, his phone rang. Bev's head jerked upright, and her fists clenched.

‘Leave it. You've got your killer. You don't have to go out now. Leave it. They can speak to you in the morning.'

‘I have to answer. Don't worry, I'll tell them I can't go out again tonight.'

But as he listened, he knew he would have to let his wife down. He rang off and turned to face her.

‘There's been another murder.' Struggling to curb his impatience, he added, ‘they've found the murder weapon.'

‘Ian you've only just got home. Don't go out again.'

‘Bev, I have to go. You know I can't ignore this. The killer's still out there.'

‘You told me you'd got him locked up.'

‘We thought we had, but it seems we got the wrong man. We've had to release our suspect.'

‘Great!'

‘But now we're going to be able to trace the right one through the murder weapon. We're about to crack it, Bev. I have to be there. You must get the significance of the find.'

‘Yes, all right, I get it, I get it. But it's down to the forensic people to examine it and come up with something. There's nothing you can do. You're going because you want to go, not because anyone needs you there.'

The phone rang again.

‘I'm on my way,' he said, standing up.

He leaned down and gave Bev a kiss on the top of her head. She turned away.

57

The dead girl
lay across the path that led beside her house to a back garden or yard. The only illumination on the path normally would be a faint glow from the street lamps on the road running past the house, and any light that reached it from the moon. Tonight the area was lit up by bright lamps. White-clad scene of crime officers flitted around, ghostly in the unnatural light. More lights had been set up inside the forensic tent. Crime scenes out of doors were always difficult to manage. One end of the tent was open to the elements, allowing a scene of crime officer to examine the front door to the property which was spattered with blood. He leaned forwards, intent on his work, and took no notice of the bustle of activity going on behind him. Across the centre of the narrow tent lay the body, her face a mess of blood. More blood had seeped into the cracks of the paving stones beneath her. In the bright lighting, Ian could see one side of her long dark hair was streaked with red. It had stained her coat, scarlet blotches against green fabric. Beside her on the path lay a bloody axe. Ian's breath caught in his throat as he gazed at the murder weapon that had taken four lives, possibly more. He had seen similar axe heads at Jorvik, where they were called bearded blades because of the curved lower side designed to hook over enemy shields, and a rounded cutting edge.

‘Some of her blood must have sprayed on the killer,' a scene of crime officer said. ‘It went everywhere. Look.' He pointed at the ground where a bloody smudge was visible. ‘It's only a partial, but we might be able to get something off it. And there's that.' He nodded at the axe.

Ian stared first at the blurry footprint left by the killer, and then at the axe that must surely yield up his identity. After weeks of casting around helplessly, the net was finally closing in.

Another scene of crime officer came over to tell Ian that a doctor was on the way. A brown leather handbag dangled from his arm. It was stained with blood.

‘We retrieved this from underneath the victim. The strap was still slung over her shoulder. It must have swung round behind her as she fell and she must have landed on top of it.'

Ian took the bag. Fumbling with gloved fingers, he opened the zip and pulled out a fluffy pink purse. Inside it were a couple of ten pound notes and a handful of change. The killer had not had time to steal the girl's coins before running off. Obviously he had left in a panic, or he wouldn't have left his axe behind. Ian wondered what had disturbed him.

‘Something rattled his cage all right,' a scene of crime officer commented, as though he could read Ian's mind. ‘Wish I knew what it was. We've got a right crazy here.'

Ian examined the contents of the bag. Apart from a make-up case and a pen, he found a bank card in the purse, and a door key. A quick check of her bank details revealed that the dead girl's name was Andrea Shelton. She was twenty-two years old and she had been killed on her own doorstep. Someone must have passed by, or shouted out, for the killer to rush off in such a hurry. They needed to find that witness. It was possible someone inside the house had heard something, although no one had contacted the police. Manoeuvring his way past scene of crime officers, Ian rang the bell. No one answered. He hammered loudly on the door but there was no response from inside. It didn't look as though anyone in there had frightened the killer away.

After banging on the dead girl's door, Ian went to check with the adjoining properties. The victim had lived in a first-floor maisonette. To start with he tried the people who lived downstairs. A man in his early thirties came to the door. He said he was at home with his girlfriend and claimed to have no inkling that a tragedy had been unfolding just outside his home. He told Ian they had been watching television in their living room at the back of the house. They hadn't heard any disturbance outside. His girlfriend came to join him. Short and blonde, she was clearly shocked to hear that her neighbour upstairs had been murdered.

‘But she was so nice,' she burst out, ‘who would have done that? Who?'

She was shaking. Her boyfriend put his arm round her as Ian explained what appeared to have happened.

‘Oh my God,' the girl kept repeating, over and over, ‘oh my God.'

Having established that they could tell him nothing that might help move the investigation forward, Ian left. He gave them each a card and asked them to contact him if they thought of anything that might help discover the identity of the killer. The neighbours on both sides of the property were similarly shocked, but unable to offer any useful information. Ian returned to the tent, deep in thought. If none of the neighbours had interrupted the killer, someone else must have gone past to disturb him at his grisly work. The police would have to put out an appeal for witnesses. That could be a longwinded task, inviting all sorts of cranks to come forward with false information. It was a pity none of the immediate neighbours had noticed anything. He tried the properties over the road, but no one had seen anyone go past. As before, the killer had disappeared without a trace – except that this time he had left his axe behind.

That was enough.

A doctor arrived and gave the body a quick examination. Thin and fair-haired, she scowled up at Ian as though he was to blame for dragging her out to look at a corpse. With a grunt she rose to her feet and dusted her knees with the back of a gloved hand.

‘Well, she's dead,' she announced.

‘Time of death?'

‘It's difficult to be precise, with the body being outside, but I'd say about two hours ago, between eight thirty and nine thirty.'

She looked surprised when Ian asked if she could tell him anything about what had happened.

‘I would have thought that was pretty obvious. Now I really need to get going.'

Without another word she spun on her heel and walked away.

Before the axe was removed for close forensic examination in the lab, a police handler arrived with a tracker dog. With luck, it would lead them straight to the owner of the weapon. The handler was concerned that the blood on the axe might put the dog off the scent they wanted it to follow, but he was ready to give it a try. There was a chance it could work. Ian watched the animal sniffing at the axe. It was a surreal scenario that seemed to take ages. At last the handler seemed satisfied the dog had picked up the scent.

‘Let's hope it's the right one,' Ian muttered as he followed the handler down the path beside the house, back to the street.

After sniffing around on the pavement for a few minutes, the dog set off up the road. The handler hurried after it with Ian following. As they reached the end of the road there was a clap of thunder. The dog didn't even pause in his stride as it began to pour with rain. The handler had come prepared in a waterproof jacket. Ian swore. He wasn't wearing a coat.

‘It's taking us back to the river!' the handler called over his shoulder.

The dog began to trot faster as they approached the river path. They were returning to the location the dog had led them to once before. Ian was convinced they were on the right track, even though it would probably only take them to the water's edge again.