Innocent Blood (11 page)

He went before Snow had chance to respond.

Fifteen minutes later he was sitting at a cramped table in the cafe area with Colin Bird, who had not only bought the coffees but also what Snow regarded as a revolting synthetic cream doughnut. He had no intention of eating it all. He took a small mouthful to be polite and then slipped the plate to the side, hidden by the plastic menu.

‘So are you a regular at Lodges?’ asked Snow, for want of anything better to say.

‘Not as much as you,’ Bird observed slyly. ‘Anyway, I’m glad I’ve seen you. I’ve … I’ve got a bit of a proposition to put to you.’ He wrinkled his nose and shook his head. ‘Nah, not proposition. That sounds a bit dodgy, doesn’t it? It’s all this police speak we’re used to spouting. I meant an offer. An invitation …’

Snow took a sip of coffee and said nothing.

‘I thought it would be fun if you and I took a trip to Sherwood’s on Saturday night. What d’you say?’

Snow didn’t say anything for a while. He couldn’t believe Bird could be so crass. ‘I think not,’ he said evenly.

‘Why not?’

‘No.’

‘You’re not going to tell me it’s not your scene, are you?’ Bird’s voice had darkened now and the humour had left his eyes. ‘Because I know it is.’

‘We shall have to beg to differ then,’ said Snow, rising from his seat. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

Bird grabbed his arm tightly. ‘You can’t go like that. For fuck’s sake, Paul, you’ve got to live a little. You can’t live in a straitjacket all your life.’

Snow yanked his arm free from Bird’s grip. ‘As I said: thanks for the coffee,’ he said coolly, and walked away.

As he walked to the car park with his trolley, Paul Snow’s heart was beating furiously.

From the window of his cottage, Amos Rawcliffe watched with fascination as the Scenes of Crime Officers buzzed like flies around a jam pot, investigating the abandoned caravan on his land. They were dusting the door with powder, taking numerous photographs, popping in and out the van at regular intervals, carrying with them polythene bags containing items which they took away to a waiting police vehicle. The inspector and his assistant stood quietly nearby, watching this frenzied activity.

What on earth had that John Hall done? John Hall? Well, that obviously wasn’t his real name. He must have carried out some really terrible crime to warrant all this fevered activity. Amos suddenly shuddered as a thought struck him. Friggin’ hell, he could have been a killer. I could have been murdered in my bed. I reckon I’ve had a friggin’ lucky escape.

Outside, Snow stood quietly by the caravan while the SOCOs got on with the job. Sean Quigley, the officer in charge, appeared at the door and beckoned to him. ‘There’s nothing of obvious significance as I can see, sir,’ he said. ‘The guy has covered his tracks very carefully. It’s as though he was expecting the caravan to be found.’

Snow nodded to indicate that this assessment was in line with his own thinking.

‘However …’ Quigley allowed himself a brief smile. ‘I have found something.’ With a cheesy dramatic gesture, reminiscent of an end-of-the-pier magician, he produced a transparent polythene envelope from behind his back. It contained two black and white photographs. Snow took the envelope and scrutinised the photographs. One, the smaller of the two, was an informal snap of a young girl aged around eight years old. She was smiling at the camera in a shy way. It was very fuzzy and her features were in shadow but there was something about the girl that struck a chord with Snow – but he didn’t know what. He had seen a copy of the other photograph before. It was a more formal shot of the Marsdale Choir. What was rather chilling was that all the faces of the young girls, apart from two, had a black cross marked across their faces.

Snow gave an involuntary shudder.

‘Where did you find these?’

‘Under the knifebox in the kitchen drawer, covered up by an old tea towel.’

‘Get these tested for fingerprints and then let me have them pronto. I want to find the identity of this girl.’

‘Will do,’ said Quigley, puffing out his chest a little. He knew he had hit some kind of jackpot.

He sat near the school gates in his new van – new to him, that was. This rattle trap was at least fifteen years old and probably wouldn’t make it to sixteen. But it had been all he could afford. Money was running out now and he still had his mission to complete. Two more deaths to arrange. And it wasn’t going to be easy. Not now. The police were obviously on to his game. He could see Elizabeth Saunders accompanied by a police officer collecting her from school. Obviously she was there to protect the girl. The cops had worked out that she was a probable target, which meant they were putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Very soon they would get to the key missing piece: him.

The policewoman took hold of the girl’s hand, chatting in a jolly fashion as she led her to the police car at the end of the road. They drove off, disappearing into a stream of traffic.

What the hell was he to do now? How could he get to the girl? No doubt the other one would be similarly chaperoned. He knew that he hadn’t the luxury of time to wait. He needed to act fast. Doors were shutting in his face very quickly. Something drastic had to be done. What, he wasn’t quite sure yet, but he now accepted that others might have to be harmed in the process. He had realised very early on that this might be the case and he must not flinch now. He must not be stopped in his mission. After all, he had the right of justice on his side.

Paul Snow had just started washing up after his evening meal when the doorbell rang. He frowned and moved to the front door apprehensively. He never had unexpected visitors in the evening unless they were connected with work, and even then this was rare. A phone call was the usual summons to drag him back from his spartan domesticity to the grubby world of crime.

He discovered Colin Bird on the doorstep, wearing a broad grin and clutching a bottle of red wine in his hand.

‘Surprise!’ he chortled, thrusting the bottle towards Snow. ‘Avon calling.’

For a moment Snow was lost for words, although he was able to deduce that Bird was not quite sober: the misty eyes, the slightly slurred speech and the dishevelled tie told him as much.

Bird filled in the gap left by Snow’s lack of response. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

It was the last thing Snow wanted to do, but he felt it was the safest under the circumstances. A tipsy colleague on his doorstep with a bottle of wine would not be an ideal scenario.

‘I thought you and I could have a little drink,’ Bird muttered as he followed Snow into the sitting room.

‘Have you driven here?’

Bird giggled. ‘Still on duty, eh? Nah, got a taxi. Not stupid, old boy.’

‘What brings you here?’ As soon as the words left his mouth, Snow regretted uttering them.

‘A social call. Come to see my old buddy, well new buddy really. I thought a few drinks might cement the relationship. Might act as a little persuader … eh?’

‘Maybe you’ve already had your few drinks.’

‘Don’t you believe it.’ Suddenly Bird’s voice seemed more assured, less indistinct. The squiffy entrance had been faked. To cover embarrassment? To ensure entry? Snow could not be sure, but there was some nasty devious game being played here.

‘Now we’ll need two glasses and a corkscrew. Come on, Paul, hurry up. This is a damn fine wine and it’s eager to be sampled.’

Without a word, Snow went into the kitchen to retrieve the glasses and corkscrew. He didn’t quite know what was going on here, although rather worriedly he had his suspicions. And he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit. He knew that he would have to be civil, or as civil as circumstances would allow, but he had to get rid of his visitor as soon as possible. No doubt a visit to Sherwood’s would raise its head again and he would have to ride that particular awkward roller.

When Snow returned to the sitting room, he found Bird had taken off his jacket and tie and was perusing the bookcase. ‘A love of Dickens, I see.’ The voice was now normal with no trace of inebriation.

‘Amongst others.’

‘No Thomas Hardy, I see.’

‘Too fatalistic for my taste. You’ve got to give people a chance. We’re not puppets. Fate may play about with us, deal us blows, but we also have free will, otherwise we’d all be slaves of circumstance.’

Bird chuckled. ‘Crikey, I didn’t expect to get a lecture on philosophy and literature when I came here tonight.’

Snow smiled also. ‘I wonder what really did bring you here tonight?’

‘You mean apart from the taxi …’ Bird’s eyes twinkled unpleasantly. ‘Oh, I just fancied a drink and a chat. I thought you and I bonded in the Indian the other night and maybe we could take it a little further.’

Snow inserted the corkscrew and began turning. ‘Bonded?’

‘You know … we have things in common.’

‘The job?’

‘The job, of course … and other things.’

Snow did not respond.

‘I mean … we’re both bachelors with no ties. A bit lonely. I’m a bit lonely and I reckon you are. Wherever I see you you’re on your own. In Sherwood’s and the restaurant and the supermarket, shopping for one. Where’s the fun in that?’

‘It’s out of choice,’ Snow said, pouring the wine. ‘I like it. I am naturally a loner. Police work breeds you that way.’

‘Bollocks!’

‘Thanks.’

‘No offence, but police work binds you together. You need that closeness, the companionship, the camaraderie to get you through the shit we have to deal with. The police is like an extended rather unruly family – unless you’re different.’

Snow could see the danger zone on the horizon and was determined to change course. He handed Bird a glass of wine and took a sip from his own.

‘What d’you think?’

‘Yes, this is good,’ he said. ‘A Malbec.’

‘I know bugger all about wine. I took advice from the guy in the shop and no doubt he was bent on selling me the most expensive bottle on his shelves.’

‘Well, it’s excellent.’

‘Good, well get it down your neck.’

Snow took another sip.

‘So, how’s the case going? I’m following the progress in the press and colleagues keep passing on little titbits but I don’t know the latest.’

‘We’re getting there, I think. Don’t really care to talk shop, I’m afraid.’

‘You don’t really like to talk about a lot of things, eh, Paul?’

Snow took a small sip of wine. ‘I’m a private person, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Private. Secretive. Deceptive.’

Snow did not respond to this, but already his mind was working on how to get this fellow out of his house before this situation got out of hand.

‘Interesting, what you said about Thomas Hardy just now. You know, about free will. “We are not puppets or slaves of circumstance” and all that. I agree, we’re not. If we are grown up enough, we should be able make our destinies, make our own choices.’

‘Within the bounds of reason and safety.’

‘Safety? Surely, we cannot live without risks.’

‘Probably not, but we can act to minimise them.’

Bird laughed. ‘You’re very good, Paul. Very good indeed. But you don’t fool me.’

‘Have I attempted to fool you?’

Bird drained his glass and placed it at his feet. He leaned forward towards Snow and said in a croaky conspiratorial whisper: ‘Sherwood’s.’

Again, Snow did not respond.

‘You weren’t there on a case, were you? Not checking out a suspect, following a line of enquiry? No. You were there as a punter.’

‘I was there having a drink.’

‘In a gay bar?’

‘I was there having a drink.’

‘So was I. Having a drink. In a gay bar. I go there quite often. I’m surprised I’ve not seen you there before.’

‘It was my first time. I just wanted a drink.’ It was a lie. It sounded like a lie. He knew that Bird would recognise it as such and the only benefit it would serve would be bringing the motive behind his visit out into the open.

‘Oh, come now, Paul, don’t fib to me. Isn’t it time we placed our cards on the table? You know what I’m getting at. You’re a bloody good detective, I know that, so don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m on about.’

‘I’m not pretending that, but I am deliberately leaving unspoken that which I don’t want to be spoken, to be discussed.’

‘Well, hard bloody lines, because I intend to speak about it. You’re with a friend here. One who knows. One who is.’ Colin Bird winked as he uttered these words.

‘I think it’s time for you to go now.’

‘Only if I get a goodnight kiss.’ Bird laughed heartily and then the humour left his face, the features darkening. ‘I’ve been stalking you, you know. It wasn’t an accident that I bumped into you in the supermarket this morning. I wanted a romantic tryst, you see.’

Snow rose from his chair and walked to the door and opened it. ‘Leave, now, please.’

Bird rose also and beamed at Snow. ‘Not such a gallant host then? OK, I will go for now. But I don’t intend to leave you alone, Mr Snow. I shall be like a dog with a bone.’ As he walked to the outer door, Bird raised his arm with the intention of running his fingers down Snow’s cheek but Paul stepped back to avoid contact.

Bird accepted the rebuff with aplomb. ‘Next time, eh?’ he said, his grin increasing. ‘You’ll come round, I’m sure. Oh, and don’t worry your lovely little head about things: your secret is safe with me.’

After he had gone, Snow wandered back into his sitting room in a kind of daze. He didn’t have to ask himself what that was all about, but he did wonder what the hell he was going to do. He opened the sideboard and extracted a bottle of single malt and poured himself a large measure. He put all thoughts on hold until he had taken a generous mouthful. It burnt his throat, warmed his innards and to some extent helped him relax – so much so that he poured himself another.

It would seem, he pondered, as he sipped the whisky with enthusiasm, that he had been propositioned by Colin Bird. He allowed himself a twisted grin as the irony struck him: in the last two days a member of each sex had come on to him. ‘I didn’t know I was that popular … or versatile,’ he muttered to himself with a fey grin, the whisky already helping to slur his words.