Brothers in Blood (27 page)

There was one interesting piece of information that Daniels had relayed to him: Blake had spent a great deal of his youth in Huddersfield, only moving away when he came to Durham University. It was during this period he could have got to know Alex Marshall. Perhaps the whole thing had its seeds back then – the time when Darren Rhodes had his nasty accident. They each had a photograph of the guy.

And then there was Laurence Dane, who had stayed at the Sea Hotel, Brighton in 1976 and sent a message to Alex Marshall to meet up. Perhaps he was the one to track down.

‘You look miles away,’ said Daniels returning to his seat with a fresh pint of bitter.

‘Just thinking.’

‘Ah, thinking… that gives you a headache.’ Daniels gave a weary smile and lit another cigarette. ‘It’s a bit of a bugger, this case, but these bastards often have a way of sorting themselves out. We’ll need to keep in touch, pass on any tidbits that can be of use.’

Snow nodded. ‘Certainly.’ He drained his glass. ‘Now I think I’d better be on my way. Thanks for the help.’

Daniels raised his glass in reply. ‘No problem.’

When Snow arrived back at his office, it was dark and most of the team had gone. There was just Sally and Bob Fellows in the incident room and he was shrugging on his coat ready to leave. Snow wandered to the little kitchen area to make himself a coffee.

‘Where’ve you been, sir?’ asked Fellows.

Snow told him. ‘Thought I’d spare you the drive this time,’ he added.

‘Anything you want me to do tonight?’

Snow shook his head. ‘No, you get off. I’ll see you in the morning.’

Fellows didn’t need telling twice. He was out of the office in a trice.

‘You get off, too, Sally,’ Snow said, putting the kettle on.

‘Yes, I think I’m done for the day.’

‘You and me both.’ Suddenly he felt very weary and it wasn’t simply a tiredness brought on by two long drives in one day; it was like a dark depressive languor that had suddenly settled on him.

‘You all right, sir?’

Snow smiled. There she was mother-henning him again.

‘Right as I’ll ever be,’ he replied with more gravitas than he had intended.

‘You need a hot meal and a drink to perk you up, I reckon. What you having to eat tonight?’

Snow shrugged. He hadn’t thought. Meals were not very high on his agenda at the moment. But the mention of food made him realise that he’d had nothing to eat since breakfast.

‘Why not come back to my place. I’ve a home made steak and kidney pie in the fridge – enough for two. Washed down with a glass of red, it’ll do you the world of good.’

The world of good. Oh, that’s what he could do with.

He hesitated for a moment, sorely tempted and then slowly shook his head. ‘Thanks, Sally but…’ his voice trailed off.

‘That’s all right, sir,’ she said quickly, somewhat embarrassed that she had made the offer to her boss in the first place. What was she thinking of? ‘It was just a thought.’

‘And it was a very nice thought, too. I appreciate it. Really. Thank you. Maybe another time.’

Grabbing her coat Sally headed for the door. ‘Good night then, sir,’ she said in a muted fashion before making a swift exit.

‘Damn!’ Snow slammed his fist against the wall. He felt both angry and guilty for turning down Sally’s offer in such a dismissive fashion. Why the hell shouldn’t he have gone to her place for a bite to eat? He could do with the company. Take his mind off things. Off Armitage. Of course he knew why. He was frightened that Sally might have motives behind the invitation. Might have some kind of romantic agenda. As soon as this thought slipped into his mind, he realised how ridiculous it was. She was a lonely woman, he was a lonely man and all she’d done was ask him to share a meal together. What an idiot. A clumsy idiot. And as if to prove his point he accidentally knocked over his coffee mug, the granules spilling over the work surface.

THIRTY-SEVEN

‘And this, of course, is the most important room in the property.’

‘Oh, really’

‘Yes… the bedroom.’ The response was heavy with innuendo. He paused for a moment and then pushed the flimsy door open. ‘I’m sure you’d like to take a look inside.’

The girl frowned slightly but entered nonetheless. He followed behind her, closing the door.

‘You must test the bed,’ he said, plonking himself down on it and pressing both hands on the mattress. ‘Come and try it.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ the girl said, a note of concern in her voice.

‘I insist,’ he said, reaching out and with a sudden movement, pulling her towards him.

She gave a little cry of surprise as she landed on the bed by his side.

He just grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He leaned over her and stroked her face. She gave a little whimper.

‘OK. Cut. That’s a take. Well done you two,’ said Ted Torrance, the director. He gave a little chuckle. ‘We can’t get any steamier than that before the watershed. We don’t want the old ladies gagging on their chocolate digestives.’

There was general muted laughter from the crew.

‘We’ll break for lunch now. Scene 14b at 2 p.m. please.’

‘That’s me done for the day then,’ said Laurence who had wandered over to Torrance.

The director nodded. ‘Good work, Laurence. You’re a natural for television. You did very little in that scene but you were fully convincing as a sleazy bastard.’

Laurence smirked. ‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’

‘Indeed. I reckon you’re an asset to the show. I’ve already had a word with Piers, the producer, to suggest that they keep your character on a bit longer.’

‘Well, cheers for that. I must admit am rather enjoying myself.’ He cast a glance at Sarah Cracknell, who was checking her make-up. ‘Still, dragging darling Sarah under the covers has its plus points.’

‘There’ll be no under the covers on
Emmerdale
, I’m afraid. You’ll just have to find your thrills elsewhere.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Laurence. ‘Not a problem.’

‘Call it a hunch, although it’s not really a hunch because I’ve nothing to back it up. Call it ‘the need to do something when all other ideas have run out.’ Am I making sense?’

Sergeant Bob Fellows grinned. ‘Not really. Perhaps you’d like to start from the beginning and simply.’

‘It seems to me,’ said Snow as though he was thinking aloud, which in a sense he was. ‘It seems to me that all this stuff began in Huddersfield some time ago. Maybe around 1970 when Darren Rhodes had his accident – if it was an accident. Why Russell and Alex should have the guy’s photo I do not know. I can’t think they would be friends with such a low life but he does somehow link them together and probably to the other fellow in the frame.’

‘This Laurence bloke.’

‘Laurence Dane, yes. Sally’s had no luck with him yet. Certainly he hasn’t got a record, that’s for sure. Apparently he’s not with Equity. But we’ll trace him in the end. But back to this morning’s business… in 1970 Russell Blake was attending Greenbank Sixth Form College doing his A levels…’

‘And that’s why we’re on our way there now?’ There was a note of incredulity in Fellows’ voice.

‘Yes. We’re off to see one of the English teachers, a fellow by the name of Colin Simpson.’

‘Who he?’

‘He taught Russell Blake. I just wanted to get a snapshot of the young fellow circa 1970 and see if it leads us anywhere. I rang the Head yesterday and very obligingly he did a little digging and came up with Colin Simpson. He’s the only member of staff still around from 1970 who had Blake in his group.

‘Let’s hope he’s got a good memory and he’s not senile.’

Colin Simpson did have a good memory and as a fellow in his mid-forties, he was far from senile. He looked tired though, haggard even, with a lumbering gait and bowed shoulders; the years of teaching were taking their toll. He was dressed in an ancient shiny suit which had obviously seen great service in the classroom. A knitted tie of indeterminate colour hung loosely knotted around his neck.

He saw Snow and Fellows in one of the smart ‘study rooms’ off the library and had even arranged coffee for them. It was, thought Snow, that for Simpson this was a pleasant interlude from the rigours of the classroom. Contact with the real outside world during school hours.

‘So,’ Simpson said, pulling on his chin ‘you’ve come about Russell Blake.’

Snow nodded. ‘You remember him?’

‘Oh, indeed. Bright lad but…somewhat self-contained.’

‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

‘He kept a kind of protective shell around himself, as though he didn’t want to get contaminated with human intercourse. You could only get so close to him. He was a difficult boy to understand. Intelligent though. That was his saving grace. But arrogant with it. Didn’t mix. But he did have a close friend and they were joined at the hip. They both thought they were above it all. A memorable pair. I must admit they intrigued me.’

‘Who was this friend?’

‘A boy called Laurence.’

Snow threw a glance at Fellows. ‘Not Laurence Dane?’

Simpson shook his head. ‘No. Laurence Barker. Tall, snooty lad. He and Russell were inseparable. They were on their own idiosyncratic wavelength, in their own little world. It was rumoured they were queer but I never subscribed to that theory. There was something else other than sex which bonded them together.’

‘What was that?’

Simpson shrugged. ‘Don’t really know. They had a kind of weird sense of humour and the same bleak view of the world – of life itself, I suppose. They viewed most things with sarcasm and disdain. Intellectually miserable you might say. But they were not in the least bit camp – if you know what I mean. To be honest, I didn’t dislike them but at the same time I didn’t understand them.’

‘Did they get into trouble at all?’

‘Nothing serious that I can recall. They skipped lessons from time to time but in many ways they were too mature to get involved in the usual teenage scrapes. I will say one thing however, they both seemed to have a very cruel streak, especially Barker. For example, they ragged one of my colleagues, Irene Black, something awful. She was a sensitive soul and not really suited to teaching, but that’s not the point. You expect respect from your students – or at least you did in those days. The two lads sent her up rotten. She confessed to me that she used to dread going into the classroom when they were there. She’s dead now, poor thing.’

‘How did she die?’

‘Heart attack I think.’

‘Did you teach someone called Alex Marshall around the same time?’

Simpson thought for a moment and then shook his head. ‘Not that I recall. Name doesn’t ring a bell, but if he was a run of the mill student I wouldn’t remember him. I get so many of those.’ Simpson curled a weary lip.

‘Russell Blake went to Durham University. Where did Laurence Barker go?’

‘He went to York. I seem to remember he tried his hand at acting. He was quite good at that. Read Shakespeare very well in class. He had a natural bent for showing off, I suppose.’

‘Do you think these two kept in touch after leaving college?’

‘Well, I don’t know for certain, but I would assume they did. Lifelong friendships are formed at school and these two were so close and so…’ He searched momentarily for a suitable phrase. ‘… so
simpatico
, I can hardly believe they wouldn’t have kept in touch.’

Simpson gave a brief self-indulgent smile, shifted his position in his chair and placed his empty coffee cup on a bookcase beside him. ‘So… have these fellows been up to mischief?’

‘Can’t really say at the moment, Mr Simpson. Our investigations are ongoing. However, I can tell you that Russell Blake is dead. He was murdered.’

Simpson’s hands flew to his face in shock, covering his mouth as he emitted a groan. ‘Good gracious,’ he said, looking even more tired than ever. ‘He must have only been in his early thirties. How awful. Do you know who did it?’

Snow thought he had a good idea but he wasn’t prepared to share his notion with Simpson, nor indeed with his sergeant. ‘As I said our investigation is ongoing.’ He rose to indicate the interview was at an end. ‘Thanks for your time.’

‘Well, that was interesting,’ said Snow once he and Bob Fellows were outside the building.

‘Interesting, maybe, but it doesn’t get us much further down the road.’

Snow glanced at Fellows. He liked the man: he was easy to get on with, responsible and decent and in many ways a bright copper. But he lacked an essential ingredient that would propel him further up the career ladder: imagination. He couldn’t take facts and information and play with them, and attempt to form some theory or possible scenario. Bob Fellows needed everything cut and dried before he was able take action.

‘What now?’ said Fellows as he hauled himself inside the car and began buckling his seatbelt.

‘Back to HQ and a little more sifting. But tomorrow, I fancy a trip to York. Not been there for ages. Nice city. I think I’ll go on my own. Take a trip on the train.’

Fellows seemed a little puzzled at this but said nothing.

Laurence stared unseeingly at the muted television in his hotel room. He was bored. Really bored. He felt he was no longer connecting with life. He did enjoy working on the soap opera but it was hardly engrossing or demanding work. Performing a series of short two minute scenes was easy-peasy and, because his character was a subsidiary one, his work seemed to be over in a flash, leaving him with oceans of time to kick his heels. As he took a swig of whisky from a half bottle he had by his bedside, he had to admit that he was not only bored but also lonely.

He missed his Brothers: Russell and Alex. He missed them and yet strangely he did not regret killing them. That had been part of his plan and he could not have veered from it one iota. But now there was a void; one that he had not been expecting. Although he only met up with them once a year for their annual project, in a strange way they had been with him all the time. He felt their presence and he thought of them often. Now… there was nothing.

On an impulse he dragged himself off the bed, slipped on his overcoat and went out.