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‘Where’s Jeffries?’ the party star waiting in the wings hissed. ‘We’re on in a couple of minutes.’

‘He went to the loo,’ the party agent replied. ‘I’ll go check he’s OK.’

‘Well hurry up about it!’

The agent almost collided with a man as he dashed into the gents. At first glance the lavatory appeared empty. One of the cubicle doors was almost closed. The agent glanced down. A thin stream of dark-coloured liquid had trickled across the tiled floor from within the cubicle. The agent pushed at the door. It resisted, blocked by something heavy. The agent pushed harder and the door flew open revealing the crumpled body of Councillor Robert Jeffries. Bob had always had a head for politics. Whoever slit his throat had all but severed that head from the body politic.

Getting out of the building wasn’t as easy as entering had been. At least, getting out without drawing unwelcome attention. Marshall walked slowly down the aisle on the left of the seating. The audience was becoming restless. The opening speaker had finished and there was no sign of the succeeding ones. They were unprepared for this. One or two were shuffling in their seats. A hum of subdued conversation spread through the hall. Marshall had almost reached the rear of the auditorium, where the exits to the foyer were, when a body of stewards entered the hall. Some went down the trio of aisles; others remained at the
rear standing menacingly in front of the door. That way was barred. Marshall turned hastily aside, as if looking for a seat. As he did so a fresh sound panicked him even more. Faintly, in the distance as yet, but distinct, the unmistakeable sound of sirens. Marshall knew where they were headed. Knew he’d to leave now. Knew the next two minutes were his only chance to escape. He saw a curtain halfway down the aisle at the far side of the hall where there was obviously a door. The luminous sign above read ‘Fire Exit’. It was worth a try. Anything was worth a try. Any second now police would be entering the foyer. Marshall inched his way over towards the far side of the hall as if still looking for a vacant seat. His eyes scanned the
auditorium
constantly for movement that might signal the arrival of the police. He reached the emergency exit sign and looked quickly to his immediate right and left. He glanced cautiously over his shoulder to see a number of police officers entering the body of the hall as he slipped behind the curtain. Marshall slowly pushed the bar and the door opened a couple of inches. It led straight out on to the pavement. He carefully pushed the door wider, and slid through it, closing it gently behind him.

‘Hey! You! What are you doing?’

Marshall turned, shock sending his legs momentarily into quivering jellies. Two large police officers were coming rapidly towards him. Their build suggested they might be rugby league prop forwards. Marshall turned to run and found himself confronted by a man in plain clothes. Recognition was instant and mutual, dislike almost as quick. It was the man who’d threatened Lisa in Netherdale. Obviously relishing the task, DS Donald Smailes began to speak, ‘Alan Charles Marshall, I am arrest—’

That was as far as he got before Marshall came to his senses, came to realize the desperation of his plight. He reached for the object at his belt, swung it high and hard. Heard the loud crack as it made contact with the man’s skull. Then he ran, with all the speed he could, from the collapsed figure on the pavement and the two officers lumbering after him. As he ran Marshall replaced the object on his belt. The eight-inch-long,
lead-weighted cosh, used by anglers and shooters alike to dispatch wounded fish or animals. It was known as a ‘priest’, presumably because it administered the last rites. Marshall prayed it hadn’t fulfilled that function on the detective he’d struck.

He got away more by good luck than management. His narrow escape left him shaken. The thought of what he’d left behind only increased his fear. Any chance of denying his involvement in the murders would soon be gone. The evidence was overwhelming. The councillor’s body, his fingerprints close by. A towel soaked in his blood. His previous association with the dead man. If he’d been in a predicament before, his situation now was dire.

He risked catching a bus and got off at the stop nearest to the hotel and walked the intervening quarter of a mile. Caution was becoming more of a second nature now and he waited in the shadow of a tall chestnut tree, scanning the car park for strange vehicles; then examined cars parked in the street for people sitting inside. After fifteen minutes watching and waiting, when he was as certain as could be that it was safe, he walked swiftly across the road and into the building. The
reception
area was deserted, the reason becoming clear as he passed the resident’s lounge. The big screen TV was on, a football match being broadcast, watched by almost every other resident and the hotel’s proprietor. Marshall passed unnoticed and trotted up the flight of stairs to his room. He locked his room door behind him with some relief and went to switch the light on. He then had a second thought and crossed to the window instead. He stood in the shelter of the curtain for several minutes until a measure of night vision came to him and he was able to see the rear aspect of the hotel. Eventually he was satisfied that the shrubs and bushes were not concealing a posse of policemen. He closed the curtains before returning to the light switch. He flicked it on and examined the room carefully. Everything appeared to be as he had left it.

He waited for half an hour and by that time was
reasonably
certain he was safe, for that night at least. He picked up
his mobile phone and rang the Dickinsons’ number. Shirley answered. She sounded brighter than when he’d spoken to her last. She recounted her conversation with Lisa which cheered him immensely. He took the news of the delay in obtaining the car registration details in his stride, then explained how his evening had gone.

‘What will you do? And what about this letter?’ Shirley asked.

‘To be honest I’ve no idea. I can’t think why this is happening. My only thought is about that car and the owner. If I can find that out, it might give a clue as to who’s behind all this. At the moment I seem to be blundering from one crisis to another and getting myself deeper in the mire. When I left Woodbine Cottage I was a suspect in two murders. Since then I’ve managed to avoid being arrested, committed an assault on a police officer and now I could be suspected of the Jeffries murder. The worst of it is, I can’t think of anything positive to set against all that. I’m not sure how much longer this hotel will remain safe. All I can do is to sit tight, keep my head down and hope.’

‘There is one other thing you could do.’ Shirley’s tone was diffident. She reminded him about Lisa’s suggestion of contacting Nash.

‘I don’t know,’ Marshall said. ‘I keep thinking back to what Moran said, about not trusting anyone. How do I know this isn’t a trick?’

‘Phone from your mobile. There’s no way they can trace you from that. What harm can it do? You’re in that much trouble a phone call’s not going to make things worse. They can’t get any worse.’

‘I’ll give it some thought,’ he promised.

After he rang off he sat for a long while, then crossed to the bedside and switched on the clock radio. He tuned into the local station and waited for a news report. It was 10 p.m. when the bulletin came on. The announcer’s tone was grave as he described the finding of Councillor Jeffries with his throat slit in the lavatory of the hall where he was holding an election meeting. The newsreader went on to say the police had almost been successful in detaining the man they suspect committed
the murder, but the man escaped after assaulting an officer.

Marshall switched off the radio and sat on the edge of his bed, deep in thought. The manhunt for him before this would have been as nothing compared to what it would be now. He looked round the room, assessing his position. Then he reached for his mobile.

It was turned seven o’clock before Nash was about ready to leave the office, when the phone rang. It was Ruth. ‘I’m just leaving Netherdale,’ she told him. ‘How do you fancy eating out? I’m paying.’

‘I’ll go for that, especially the last bit.’

‘Spoken like a true Yorkshireman.’

‘How long do you reckon before you’re here?’

‘Half an hour, tops.’

As he waited, Nash read the Marshall file again. He knew there was something in there he should have spotted before. An inconsistency. But he couldn’t nail it. He’d closed the file, and as Ruth Edwards entered the CID suite, he realized what it was he’d missed.

‘What is it, Mike?’ Ruth could tell something was wrong by his expression.

‘Bear with me a minute, Ruth.’

He reopened the file. He had to check his facts. If he was right, everything about the case, all their preconceived notions, went out of the window. He stared at the sheet of paper. He moved it to one side, hunting through the rest of the file until he located what he was looking for. ‘There,’ he said triumphantly. ‘I knew it! I knew something was wrong.’

He looked up, saw Ruth’s puzzled expression. He laid a hand on the folder. ‘This is the file relating to Marshall’s original conviction for the murder of his wife. Read that’ – he pointed to a report – ‘then read this statement. Look at the dates.’

She bent over the papers, her rich, auburn hair sweeping forward framing her face. After a few moments, she looked up. ‘I’m sorry, Mike. I don’t see the significance.’

Nash pointed to part of the statement. ‘That’s a transcript of the first interview with Marshall, right?’ She nodded. ‘Read that sentence there, and compare it with the report on the other piece of paper.’

Ruth read it once, then a second time; then realized what she was reading. She looked up, her expression one of shocked disbelief. ‘That’s not possible: totally impossible.’

Nash shook his head, his face grim. ‘No it isn’t. In one set of circumstances, it is perfectly possible. But the circumstances are almost unthinkable.’

‘Explain it for me, please?’

‘At the time of Marshall’s first interview, Anna’s body hadn’t been found, only her car. Dundas was obviously trying to pressure Marshall into confessing. He asked him’ – Nash glanced down at the file – ‘“isn’t the truth that you slit your wife’s throat and disposed of the body by tossing it into the sea?” At first, when I read that, I was dreadfully worried that Dundas might have been involved. How else could he have known precisely how Anna Marshall was murdered? But then I read this….’

Nash turned the pages of the file until he reached the document he wanted. ‘This is a transcript of Dundas’s
interview
of Stuart Moran, the day
before
he questioned Marshall. In it, Dundas asked Moran, “What do you think happened to Mrs Marshall?” Moran’s reply is very enlightening. “I believe Marshall slit her throat, drove to the coast and dumped her body in the sea. He had a ferocious temper, Anna told me that, and said he was insanely jealous. She told me they’d had terrible rows, and that she was so embarrassed about them she dreaded bumping into their neighbours.” In those few sentences Moran planted the idea for Dundas that Marshall had murdered Anna, and even pointed the way for him to question the neighbours. Dundas would not have been aware of how Anna was killed, but Stuart Moran certainly knew, and his whole statement is a very clever attempt to frame Marshall. An attempt that succeeded. It probably sounded plausible to Dundas in view of the facts surrounding the finding of her car.’

‘And you think the neighbours were bribed to say what they did?’

‘Bribed, blackmailed or cajoled some way or other, yes. Reading the file, there were only two who said they’d heard these so-called rows. On its own, hardly overwhelming. But together with the other evidence, enough to build a successful prosecution on.’

‘You realize I’ll have to act on this?’

‘Wearing your other hat, you mean? Your, Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary hat?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Hang on,’ Nash warned. ‘First of all, we’ve a killer to bring to justice. A man who’s got away with his crimes for far too long. We can’t afford to warn him by precipitate action. We know Marshall couldn’t have killed the couple in The Golden Bear; not wearing that uniform. Now, we also have evidence that proves he’s innocent of his wife’s murder. As long as we remain in charge of the investigation we can afford to let the world continue to believe in his guilt for a while longer, giving us chance to try and find out who is behind this, and what their motive is.’

‘Have you any idea how?’

‘Yes, I think so. I’ll tell you over dinner.’

They opted for a Mexican meal. Much of the time in the restaurant they spent conversing in low tones, barely above a whisper. Diners at surrounding tables would have assumed them to be lovers. The conversation would have startled them out of that belief. ‘Somewhere out there is a killer with a penchant for slicing throats in as bloodthirsty a fashion as I’ve ever seen,’ Nash stated.

‘Agreed, and the problem we’ve got is, we haven’t the remotest idea who it is. Could be any one of the adult population of the United Kingdom.’

Nash smiled. ‘Actually, you’re wrong, Ruth.’

She looked at him, curiously. He explained about Andrews and the car registration. ‘Lisa checked it out. The car’s registered to an address in York, not been reported stolen. I’m waiting to hear if the locals know anything of the owner.’

They were no sooner inside the flat than his mobile phone rang. ‘Mike Nash. Who’s this?’ He listened. ‘Mr Marshall − Alan. I’m glad you’ve rung me.’

‘Where is he?’ Ruth mouthed.

Nash shook his head. ‘Listen, Alan. I’ve some more news for you.’

The conversation lasted almost half an hour. When it was over, Nash put the mobile down. ‘Do you think we’ve done the right thing?’

Ruth thought about it. ‘I don’t see we’d much choice, given the circumstances. There’s certainly nothing in regulations that comes close to covering them.’

‘One thing for sure, Ruth, I’m glad you’re here to back me up. Given your position.’

After another late shift, covering an assault in Netherdale following a rowdy birthday party that had got out of hand, resulting in several arrests, Lisa was exhausted. She found sleep impossible. She was more involved than she ought to be in the Marshall case and couldn’t rest. At 6 a.m. she got out of bed and went into the kitchen to brew a cup of camomile tea. It did the trick. She wandered sleepily through to the bedroom and climbed back into bed. She was asleep within minutes. The ringing phone awoke her. The clock on her bedside cabinet showed 8.35 a.m. Lisa groaned and tried to ignore it, hoping whoever was phoning might get bored and ring off. Eventually, when the ringing continued Lisa thrust back the duvet. She stood up still marginally woozy from sleep and trudged
reluctantly
through to the hall.

‘Yes,’ she said testily without bothering to check the caller display.

‘I wonder how interested your superiors would be in the identity of your new boyfriend.’

‘What? Who is this? What do you want?’

‘Consorting with a murderer; a man wanted by every police officer in the land. Watching him commit an assault on another officer without attempting to intervene. Conniving to help
him escape. That would look really bad on your career record, wouldn’t it?’

Lisa identified her former lover at last. ‘Donald, what the hell are you talking about?’

‘Your bloodthirsty, throat-slitting lover, Alan Marshall, that’s who. Do you really expect me to say nothing whilst you help him? Of course, I might do just that for a small fee.’

‘Donald, as usual you’re full of shit. Marshall isn’t my lover, he isn’t a murderer and I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. So why don’t you take the message I’ve already given you several times. Why don’t you piss off and go back to shagging Jackie, because you’re not screwing me any longer. Not even for money. Blackmail’s an ugly word, Donald, but it suits you because you’ve an ugly, dirty mind. So piss off and stay out of my life, you worthless cretin.’ Lisa slammed the phone down to
reinforce
the message.

Unable to face the thought of trying for more sleep, she had a shower and was in the process of dressing when the phone rang again. She snatched the receiver up. ‘What is it now?’ she snapped, assuming it to be Smailes.

‘Morning, Lisa, Mike Nash here.’

‘Sorry, boss, I thought it was someone else.’

‘Listen, I know you’re not due in until this afternoon, but could you make it a bit earlier? Something’s come up.’

Donald Smailes sat with the phone in his hand for a long time. He regretted the impulse that had caused him to take up with Jackie. She wasn’t a patch on Lisa in bed, nor, as he was
beginning
to find out, was she as pleasant and loyal a companion. She blamed him for breaking up her friendship with Lisa. He felt bitter at the way things had gone, bitter and cheated. Although why he should have felt cheated only someone with as corrupt a mind as Smailes could have explained. In the end he dialled a number.

His phone call was handled with discretion, as was always the case. The nature of the work handled by the department he rang made it not only desirable, but in most cases essential.
‘I have information concerning a serving officer, one of those involved in the Marshall enquiry. I think you should be aware that the officer has been aiding and abetting a fugitive escape from justice. The officer is DC Andrews from Netherdale and I believe she and Marshall may be lovers. She is in regular communication with him and I have reason to believe they’ve slept together on at least one occasion since he became a wanted man. Certainly she helped him escape arrest when there was a general warrant out for him.’

The listener replaced the handset and began to discuss the call with a colleague, who told him, ‘We’re bound to investigate such complaints, no matter what the motive behind them is. That’s the function of this department.’

‘I know, but that caller sounded so vindictive, how can we be sure it isn’t someone merely being malicious?’

‘I’m afraid the only way is by carrying out an investigation.’

‘How do you want us to approach it?’

‘We’ll begin as normal with audio and visual surveillance of the young woman’s residence. At the same time I’d like you to organize an inspection of everything she’s been working on over the last three months. In particular, check whether she’s been supplying the suspect with information or other assistance. That covers the first part of the allegation. As to the second assertion, that’s not going to be as easy to establish. If DC Andrews has entered into a sexual relationship with the suspect that’s an even more serious allegation, especially if she’s slept with him since he was wanted for questioning. Quite how we’re to prove or disprove that without catching them at it I’m not sure. For the time being, concentrate on setting up the surveillance.’

‘What about listening to her phone calls?’

‘Yes, I think so. Given the nature of the allegation and the fact that her alleged lover is a fugitive I consider it not only
advisable
, but essential. Particularly so, as the man Marshall seems rather successful at evading capture.’

Lisa had met Barry Dickinson briefly when he’d helped her with Marshall’s Land Rover; this was the first time she’d met Shirley.
Before she could shake hands, Lisa had to greet an enthusiastic Labrador that was frisking around her. ‘This is Nell, isn’t it?’ she asked.

‘That’s right. Come along in. When Nell will allow you to, that is.’

‘I wondered what had happened to her.’

‘He entrusted her to us. The poor thing’s been fretting a bit. The two of them were rarely apart for long. I just hope this nightmare’s over soon, for both their sakes.’

‘I wanted to ask if you’d heard from Alan,’ Lisa began, as she accepted a cup of coffee. ‘Especially with what happened in Leeds last night.’

‘Yes,’ Barry replied. ‘He rang us; spoke to Shirley. We didn’t know what to do, other than advise him to phone your boss.’

‘Don’t worry, he did ring him, that’s why I’m here.’