Innocent Blood (4 page)

‘Murdered … elsewhere?’ Snow said.

‘I reckon so. Otherwise he’d have had to carry the lassie through the wood. Look at the difficulty you had getting down here.’

‘He?’ prompted Fellows.

‘Aye, they’re always a “he” to me when bairns are involved – until proved otherwise.’

Snow moved closer and let his eyes run over the sorry sight, making a mental image of it for further reference. She was a fragile creature indeed. The face was badly swollen and spattered with blood, but her features were still recognisable from the photograph he had in his jacket pocket. But Gillian Bolton was not smiling now and never would again.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I reckon this is our missing youngster all right. Poor kid. Any sign of interference? Sexual activity?’

McKinnon shook his head. ‘I think not. The girl’s knickers are intact and in place and there’s no torn clothing, but I won’t know for certain until I’ve got her on the slab.’

‘So the question is, why? What was the motive?’

Bob Fellows moved closer and placed his hand on Snow’s shoulder. ‘It’s like I said the other day. They’re all bloody crazy. Murderers. Their mind’s all fucked up. What other reason is there for murdering an innocent tot like this?’

Snow did not reply. He couldn’t for the moment. Slowly he rose to a standing position and sighed heavily. ‘Now we have to go to see the Boltons and tell them their little girl is dead.’

When Melanie Bolton opened the door, Snow could tell immediately that she had guessed the reason for his visit. Her hand flew up to her mouth and she staggered back into the hallway. Snow stepped forward and caught both her arms before she crashed to the floor.

‘No,’ she wailed. ‘Nooo!’ It was a cry that Snow would remember in all its heart-breaking, piercing clarity for a long time.

Carl Bolton came running from the sitting room. Initially his stance was aggressive but he soon worked out the situation and grabbed his wife from Snow and hugged her tight.

Snow stood by awkwardly as the two bereft parents hung on to each other as though their close contact would make the truth disappear. The truth that their daughter was dead. It was a fact they had both sensed and realised as though by some spiritual means. Snow had not uttered a word yet about the matter.

Eventually, Carl Bolton turned to Snow, while his wife clung sobbing to his chest. ‘How? Where?’

Snow’s little rehearsed speech went out of the window. His practised terms of sadness and regret were dumped in the waste bin. He answered the questions in a formal and practical manner. ‘Gillian’s body was discovered in Mollicar Woods, near Almondbury.’

‘Body? Her body? She’s been murdered, hasn’t she?’ The question was barked at him.

‘We believe so. Yes.’

‘How?’

Snow hesitated.

‘How!’ roared Carl, his eyes bulging with fury.

‘She was strangled.’

A moan escaped from Melanie Bolton.

‘Had she … had some bastard interfered with her?’ her husband asked, his voice quieter now, more strained.

Snow shook his head. ‘Not as far as we can ascertain at the moment.’

Melanie pulled away from her husband, fierce anger mingling with her pain. ‘Why? Why would anyone want to kill her? She’s just a little girl.’

There was no response that Snow could make which could answer that question or bring comfort to this desperate couple. He remembered Bob Fellows’ opinion that all murderers were crazy. It certainly was a convincing viewpoint but Snow believed that even in madness there was a purpose, a reason, however twisted or distorted, that prompted the act of murder. It would be his job to seek out that purpose.

‘Can we see her?’ asked Carl, his cheeks now damp with tears.

‘Yes, of course. We will need a formal identification …’ Snow stopped himself adding ‘of the body.’

‘When? When can we see her?’ Melanie Bolton turned her moist, mascara-stained face towards him. Already the eyes were growing empty.

Later that evening Snow and his sergeant had an end-of-the-day drink in the County, the local near police HQ. Seated in the snug in a quiet corner they discussed the case. While Snow had been passing on the sad, bad news to the Boltons, Fellows had been interviewing the couple who had found the girl.

‘They have nothing to contribute to the story,’ said Fellows, wiping a thin moustache of beer froth from his top lip. ‘They saw nothing, heard nothing and know nothing.’

‘As per in these cases,’ observed Snow dryly.

Fellows gave a sly smile. ‘I believe them. Still they’ve got their own problems. Their illicit nookie session is no longer a big secret. There will be domestic upheavals tonight, you bet.’

Snow couldn’t help but smile. ‘Don’t gloat, Sergeant.’

Fellows’ grin broadened. You’ve got to find a little lightness where you can.’

‘You’ve got to find a little lightness where you can.’ It was this sentiment that echoed in Snow’s brain later that night as he entered Sherwood’s, a discreet club for discerning gentlemen in Leeds. On most occasions Snow repressed his homosexual feelings. He had to, or his professional world would crumble. He certainly wasn’t a practising gay, but he could not deny his predilection completely. However, he knew that however fleetingly he flirted with the gay world, it had to be done with the utmost care and discretion. He was only too aware that such information would ruin his police career, as it once nearly had. But on occasions he would visit Sherwood’s to be with his own kind for a few hours, as an observer rather than as a participant. That would be too dangerous. He was dipping his toe into the pool, as it were, but no more. It helped him relax, to wash away the dirt of his real life of crime and corruption and the unpleasant feeling of denial and deceit about who he really was. There was something that was smooth, refreshing and not at all sordid here. On the surface at least – and in modern society that was probably the most that one could achieve. In his job he had quickly become aware that no matter how bright and shiny the surface, one did not have to scratch too hard before one came to the dirt, the odour of corruption.

In Sherwood’s, he would sit quietly on his own and watch, absorbing the atmosphere and the freedom exhibited by the clientele, many like him firmly in the closet for fear of exposure and the terrible consequences that would result.

It had been a wearisome and emotionally draining day. His heart had gone out to the parents of that dead child. With some murders the purpose, the motive, was obvious or at least one could make a good guess at the reason for the killing, but in cases like little Gillian Bolton it remained a puzzle. There wasn’t even a sexual motive. Such random killings were impossible to police properly, for apart from a few routine approaches there were no clues to follow. Or so it would seem. All these thoughts drifted through his mind as he sat at a corner table, sipping his glass of lager. He wanted to wipe his mind clear of the day job, to switch off and just relax in an undemanding fashion, but the image of the young strangled girl in the pretty yellow dress, staring sightlessly at the sky as she lay in the stream, kept stealing back into his consciousness.

‘You look rather sad,’ said a voice in the gloom. ‘Would you welcome a little company?’

Paul looked up and saw a tall, good-looking, well-groomed grey-haired man with a tanned face and pearly white teeth. It was the usual kind of coded intro and Snow was used to fending it off.

‘I’m waiting for a friend,’ he said, as he always did on these occasions.

The man gave a brief smile, flashing his unnaturally white teeth, and raised his shoulders gently in a casual shrug. ‘Pity,’ he said before melting back into the throng.

Snow admitted to himself that it was indeed a pity, but he could not risk it. As a young policeman he had not been so cautious and that had caused him a lot of trouble in later life. The world was not yet ready for a homosexual police officer. Certainly not in the role of detective inspector. To remain secure and safe in the job, he had to behave like a monk when it came to sexual matters. Even his presence in a gay club was perhaps dipping his toe into the waters too far but it was one kind of relief, one kind of release that helped to ease the tensions he suffered because of his hidden sexuality. He denied his natural proclivities to the outside world but he had never tried to deny them to himself. That way madness lies.

He drained his glass of lager. One more for the road, he thought. Better make it non-alcoholic to keep him within the legal limit. He made his way to the bar, sauntering through the crowd, enjoying the freedom to be fully himself. He ordered a tonic water and was about to return to his seat when someone bumped into him, causing his drink to spill over the top of the glass and on to his hands. Men bumping into men in this environment was common and usually not accidental, but Snow, attuned to false behaviour, sensed that this had been a genuine accident.

He was the first to apologise. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘My fault,’ said the man, turning to him, his face suddenly registering surprise, or was it shock. Snow felt that his features must have mirrored those of his assailant.

‘My God,’ the man said. ‘It’s DI Snow.’ It was clear that he blurted the words out without thinking.

For a moment Snow’s mind went blank. He had no idea how to respond to this situation. He had never really thought it would happen. Not only to be spotted and identified by someone in a strange little club miles away from home – but also by a fellow policeman. Indeed, he recognised the man as an officer on the drugs unit in Bradford. He’d encountered him briefly a few years previously. He searched his memory for a name. Colin. Colin Bird.

Now what was he going to say? How was he going to explain his presence in a gay bar in Leeds? Several cover-up explanations immediately suggested themselves to him: he was on a case, following up clues, he’d popped in for a drink not aware of the nature of the establishment, etc. But he knew that none would ring true and all could be checked and found wanting. Then it struck him that Colin Bird’s mind must also be racing through a similar set of scenarios.

The two men stood in silence for a little time and then almost farcically they gave each other a grim smile accompanied by a nod and with some awkwardness went their separate ways.

Snow returned to his seat, disturbed and shaken. It was possible that in fact Colin Bird
was here on police business. If he was … Snow’s blood ran cold. Had his cover really been blown? One thing was for sure, he wouldn’t know straight away. It would take the rumour machine a couple of weeks to crank up to full revs. If it was to crank up at all.

All the joy and relaxation had been drained from the evening. One thing was certain now, he could never return to Sherwood’s. He cast his gaze around the establishment and left.

For some time he sat in his car, feeling very miserable. He gazed at his features in the rear-view mirror, illuminated by the garish lights of the dashboard. They looked gaunt and vampiric, tinged as they were with a greenish hue. He allowed himself one quietly spoken obscenity. ‘Fuck,’ he said, with great feeling.

He may not have felt so downhearted if he had known that only a few streets away, Colin Bird stood quietly in a doorway pulling hard on a cigarette, wondering what kind of fallout he could expect from being spotted in a gay club by a respected DI from the Huddersfield force. He too cursed quietly between drags.

He was delighted that his handiwork was not only reported in the local paper
The Huddersfield Examiner b
ut that it had gone beyond even
The Yorkshire Post
and had been covered by the national press as well as featuring on the television news. As it should, of course, he told himself.

He smiled. It was a grim, cheerless smile: one born of heartache and mental instability. It had taken him a little time to come to terms with his mission but now he knew he was doing the right thing. It was his calling. It was the only way that justice could be served. Gradually they would see that. At the end, they would observe the link and then the reason for his actions. It wasn’t an easy task. He took no pleasure in carrying it out. But it had to be done. He was certain of that.

The first stage had gone relatively smoothly – if such a word could be applied to what he had to do. It was unfortunate that she had struggled so much and that he had to be far more violent than he had wanted to be. He hadn’t expected that. Hitting her around the face to shut her up had shocked him, but he was surprised how some kind of hardened spirit had taken him over and all his usual sensibilities had shrunk away as he became a driven force. He didn’t want to be cruel or overly violent. Just a swift, smooth killing was his aim, but when it became tricky, he had tackled the matter in a cold and pragmatic manner. He had to achieve the planned outcome whatever happened, whatever he had to do. That was all that mattered.

As he had gazed at that little body lying face downwards in the stream, he had felt not only a sense of relief, but also the pleasant glow of achievement. Now that he had succeeded once, he knew that he could continue with more confidence.

He pulled his chair up to the single-bar electric fire and rubbed his chin. The beard was making progress. Who would have thought it? He, who had hated the idea of facial hair, who had loved the sensation of warm water softening the skin before the application of a sharp blade in the morning scraping away the stubble to reveal a smooth and shiny chin, would now revel in this shaggy unkempt look. He was beginning to look like a tramp. But then he was no longer the man he had once been. He was dead. Like the others.

This thought brought tears to his eyes and he screwed up his face to expunge them immediately. Practical. Got to be practical. Time to leave this place now. Get the caravan and find some other place to camp out. Somewhere isolated, private and away from here. He looked around the old sitting room. It was really shabby now, not spotless as it had been when Maureen was alive. He hadn’t even tried to keep it tidy. Why should he? What would be the point? Yet it still bore some touches of his old life: the family pictures on the sideboard; Debbie’s old teddy propped up in the arm chair; her skipping rope and her school coat hanging on the back of the door. He suddenly felt a wave of nostalgia and overwhelming sadness crash down on him. He tolerated its presence for a few moments before hunching his shoulders violently and crying out loud. ‘Stop it! I don’t need this. It’s all bloody sentiment.’