by A. J. Oates
I sat in the back of the police car lost in my own world as I struggled to make sense of anything. I was unsure of the passage of time; minutes or maybe even an hour passed, I was oblivious. I watched out of the rear window as the young policewoman left me and went to speak to colleagues standing in the field at the side of the road. As an ambulance left the scene with its siren blaring, a second and then a third arrived, followed by a fire engine. The daylight was now gone for good and only the headlights of the emergency vehicle illuminated the road. WPC Shaw again came over, and struggled with eye contact. “I’m sorry, sir, but we need to get some details from you.”
I gave the names and ages of my family, which she scribbled down in her small notebook. Then I explained the events of the evening and that I’d driven home from the restaurant while the rest of my family had walked. When her questions were over I again asked after Helen and the rest of my family. “Unfortunately, as yet, we have not been able to find all the bodies,” she responded.
I shuddered involuntarily at her use of the word “bodies” and she quickly apologised for her insensitivity; but in reality, having seen the injuries to William, I’d feared the worst.
Again I was left alone, surrounded by a mass of activity, I seemingly playing just a bit-part in events. No one was telling me anything. I was getting frustrated, I’d answered their questions, when would they answer mine? “When can I see them?” I almost pleaded with Shaw when she returned.
“I need to speak to my sergeant about that. I’ve been asked to drive you to the Hallamshire Hospital – he’ll meet us there.”
As we set off for the city centre hospital I looked through the rear window and viewed the scene of devastation. The bodies in the road were now covered with blankets but the upturned truck hadn’t been touched. Illuminated by the numerous headlights, I could clearly make out the lettering along the driver’s door: “William’s Building Supplies.” The name had a certain familiarity, though exactly where from, I couldn’t quite say.
Arriving at the hospital’s main reception, we were immediately shown to a relatives’ room next to the main Accident and Emergency department. Every few minutes I found myself checking the clock on the wall; it was now 11.17 p.m. and almost four hours since leaving the restaurant and this new chapter in my life had begun. As the minutes ticked by I was getting increasingly irritated; why weren’t they giving me any answers? I looked at Shaw but she seemed as lost as me, and close to tears.
Eventually at 11:45 p.m. a tall, balding policeman entered, making the cramped room seem smaller still. In a thick Scottish accent he surprised me with his abruptness and began speaking almost before he was seated. “My name is Sergeant John Wallace, I’m based at Otley Road Police Station. I’m afraid I have some bad news to give you.”
I leaned forward in my chair, concentrating hard and trying to accustom myself to his accent as I worried that I might miss some vital piece of information. “Although we are waiting for a report from traffic accident investigators, it appears that a pick-up truck came around the bend near the church, presumably at some considerable speed, lost control and mounted the pavement before running into your family.”
Having witnessed the carnage at the scene, it should have come as no real surprise but I was still stunned. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move, my emotions were unfathomable; I could just feel myself staring blankly back at him. Wallace continued in his matter-of-fact manner. “It appears the two boys and their grandmother were killed at the scene but your wife –” he looked momentarily down at his notes before continuing “– Helen, that’s right, Helen, was alive when the paramedics arrived at the scene, but despite their best efforts she died shortly after her arrival in hospital.” He continued almost without taking a breath. “Your father has not yet been found but our officers are waiting for high-powered lighting so they can search some of the dense undergrowth close to the road. That’s all I can tell you at the moment – do you have any questions?” It was only then that he finally paused for breath.
I struggled to make sense of anything and couldn’t articulate my thoughts. Wallace appeared to take my silence as a cue to leave, and stood quickly. But worried that I would lose my chance to get some answers, I blurted, “The driver, what happened to the driver of the van?” the only question that came to mind.
“We don’t know … by the time the first member of the public arrived at the scene and phoned the police, the driver had already disappeared, presumably into the nearby woodland. We’re currently in the process of tracing the owner of the vehicle and obviously we’ll let you know as soon as we’ve got any further information.”
The room went quiet and Wallace appeared satisfied that I had no more questions. Then, as abruptly as he had entered, he placed a business card with his contact details on the table in front of me and left. I sat in silence in the small room with my head in my hands and lost in my thoughts as I tried to take everything in. After a few minutes, an overweight nurse came into the room, introduced herself as Yvonne and asked if I wanted to see Helen. I nodded and was led a short distance down the corridor to a set of double doors, above them written in white letters on a red background: “Resuscitation Room.” Inside, the room contained probably six or seven curtained cubicles, most of them closed off but one open, revealing an empty trolley and various small TV monitors, oxygen cylinders and a myriad of wires and tubes extending from the wall. To the background noise of electronic beeping, patients groaning and doctors shouting instructions, I was taken to the last cubicle in the row. For a split second I had the weird feeling that perhaps it had all been a mistake, or that maybe I was just having a nightmare; but then, as the curtain was pulled back and I recognised Helen, reality struck again. Covered from chin to toe with a clean white sheet, she looked so peaceful. Moving closer, the only visible injury was a small graze and bruising down the left side of her face. I struggled to take everything in. I wanted to cry. Perhaps if I could release some sort of emotion it would make me feel better, but the tears just wouldn’t flow.
After a minute or so Yvonne excused herself and I was left alone with Helen. I wanted to touch her, may be even kiss her for the final time, but for whatever reason I couldn’t bring myself to. All I could do was stare at her as I tried to work out how my life had just disintegrated.
Five minutes later Yvonne returned and took me back to the relatives’ room. The rest of the evening and well into the early hours of the morning became a blur. Some time after midnight WPC Shaw returned to the room and sat down opposite me. Her eyes were red and I wondered whether she’d been crying. “We’ve found your father’s body. It appears the impact with the van threw his body over a wall and it was found in the undergrowth by a police dog.”
I couldn’t react to the news, in part because it came as no great surprise, but also because I had no more emotions to give. She gave me a few seconds to take it in before continuing: “I’ve spoken to the sister in A&E and she says that all the bodies have been taken to the morgue. It will be at least an hour or so before you can see them and confirm their identities. As it’s so late already I could take you home if you want, and arrange for you to come back later – maybe after you’ve had some sleep. It’s really up to you.”
I had no desire to drag it out any longer than was necessary and after just a moment’s thought I answered, “I’d rather stay if that’s all right, get things sorted out now. I don’t want to be coming back.” She nodded and the waiting began again.
At 3:35 a.m. a male nurse knocked and stuck his head round the door. Not making eye contact with me, he spoke to Yvonne. “They’ve just phoned, they’re ready for you.”
I let out a deep breath. It flickered across my mind that it might be better to go home, get some rest and then come back later. Yvonne, presumably picking up on my uneasiness, turned to me. “Are you sure you want to do this now?”
I just nodded, knowing that I had to stay strong and that delaying the inevitable wouldn’t help me.
/> Yvonne led the way to the morgue, with Shaw and me following in silence. The single storey redbrick building was about a hundred metres from the main hospital complex and required a short walk in the moonlit open air. We headed straight to the back entrance of the morgue and to a huge set of double doors, big enough for an ambulance to comfortably drive through. Yvonne pressed the bell and it chimed loudly inside. As we waited I glanced into Shaw’s face, eerily illuminated by a fluorescent light on the side of the building. She looked harrowed and almost as if she had aged a couple of decades in the last few hours. I suspected, like me, this was one night she’d never forget.
Within twenty seconds there was a grating of metal from inside and the sound of a heavy bolt sliding, and then the big doors slowly opened. It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the brilliance of the light from inside and to see a man, probably close to retiring age, standing in front of us. He had a sallow, pale complexion that seemed appropriate for his line of work, and as he stroked his full beard he beckoned us in. Taking just a single step inside, the strong smell of chemicals hit my nostrils and I recognised the distinctive and unpleasant whiff of formaldehyde from the university labs.
I was taken through to a small viewing area with a patterned floral carpet, pale pink walls and two large vases containing plastic flowers on tables at either end of the room. Though I tried not to look, almost pretending they weren’t there, the room was dominated by three metal trolleys, on castors, covered in crisp white sheets with the forms of bodies of different sizes clearly evident beneath.
Over the next five minutes I was taken to each table in turn; the sheet was removed to reveal the face and I simply nodded while the superintendent, hovering a few paces behind clutching a clipboard, would then step forward and I would sign an official-looking document confirming the identity. Perhaps surprisingly, I felt little in the way of emotion, just totally numb. After the identification of William, the third body, I was taken back to the waiting area for a few minutes while the trolleys were wheeled out and the remaining members of my family were brought in for the procedure to be repeated.
Around 4:00 a.m. the process was finally over. The superintendent turned to me. “Sir, would you like to spend any more time with your family?”
I didn’t. I wanted to go home.
Chapter 3
In the cold damp alley off Station Road my thoughts are sharply brought back to the present as the door of the Earl of Arundel pub opens and releases a shaft of smoke-filled light into the dark street. My heart begins to pound and I tighten my grip on the machete handle as an indistinct figure appears in the shadows of the pub entrance. But almost immediately comes the acute sense of anticlimax with the realization that it’s not Musgrove. The man, probably at least seventy and walking with a stick, clears his throat loudly, spits on the pavement and drunkenly meanders down the street. I silently urge him forward, fearful that Musgrove could appear at any time; an eye-witness, even a pissed old bloke, is the last thing I need. After thirty seconds or so, the man stops halfway down the street, fumbles with his keys for what seems like an age and then lets himself into one of the terraced houses. As the door closes behind him, the scene is once again deserted and I find myself breathing more easily.
With last orders approaching, the next few minutes drag by uneventfully. The chip shop girl has scoffed her last chip and, with the lights turned off, the street is in darkness as the wind howls shrilly down the narrow alley. A fine drizzle begins to fall and I tuck the long knife into the top of my jacket to stop the handle getting slippery. The door of the pub opens again and I quickly look back up as a blast of raucous laughter crosses the street. A figure steps out of the pub; it’s certainly a man but his back is turned as he struggles to light a cigarette in the squall. After several failed attempts, the tip of the cigarette glows orange and forms a beacon in the darkness. He then turns and starts across the road, his head down, bowed into the wind and rain. His face remains obscured as my heart thunders against my sternum. Look up, look up, I silently plead, but for a painful few seconds his gaze appears fixed to the ground at his feet. Then finally, now just a few paces from me, he lifts his head. Musgrove, it’s Musgrove, my thoughts scream as I recognise his distinctive features. He’s looking directly at me but is apparently oblivious to my presence in the shadows. I feel sick but I know what I’ve got to do.
With my gloved hand, I delve into the jacket and pull out the heavy metal machete in a single action. I feel a sharp pain to the underside of my jaw and immediately feel warm fluid running down my neck, but nothing can stop me. I step from the alley and walk slowly and purposefully towards him. He’s now just a couple of yards away and, for the first time, he sees me. There’s a look of vague recollection in his eyes but in his alcohol and drug-induced stupor he’s got no time to react. I raise the heavy instrument to initiate the swing but then stop momentarily as a shaft of light from a car’s headlamps sweeps into the road along with the rattle of a diesel engine. But way past the point of no return, my gaze remains focused on Musgrove and I lunge at him with the force of my entire body. In an instant, the brutal blade slices deep into the side of his neck. I quickly step aside to avoid the pulsatile spray of blood and then watch as his knees buckle and he collapses face-down to the ground without uttering a sound.
For a time, almost hypnotised, I can’t take my eyes off him. The heavy instrument is embedded in his neck – he’s not completely decapitated but surely as near as makes no difference. I’d always wondered how I’d react to the sight of blood, and now looking down at my victim and watching the dark liquid pool between the cobbles of the street, my principle emotion is, shockingly, a kind of relief, certainly not guilt and certainly not regret. I fleetingly wonder what sort of person I have become, knowing that I’ve crossed a line and that I’ll never be able go back.
Shaking away my introspection and reconnecting to a reality of sorts, I bend to drag Musgrove’s body into the alley and behind the dumpster. At the same time I turn part-way to face the car’s headlights and to my astonishment, blocking the road just a few metres in front of me, is a police transit van. Stunned almost rigid, it takes a second for me to react before I let go of Musgrove’s limp body and turn to run. Behind me the door of the van slides open, followed by a male voice shouting frantically into a police radio, giving details and my description. I sprint down the alley, almost immediately stumbling over a roll of discarded carpet and only just managing to stay upright. It’s too narrow for the transit but already I can hear the officer pursuing on foot as I leave the alley and dash across the adjacent road. After weeks of cross-country training I’m physically strong and confident that if it’s down to a foot race I stand a decent chance of evading capture. But with the siren from the transit blasting out in the near distance I know it’s only a matter of time before more police are on the way. Maybe even the force helicopter is airborne, with its infra-red camera guiding my pursuers on the ground.
For the next five minutes I continue at speed, though not quite flat-out, knowing that I’ve got several miles to cover and I need to pace myself. The rain is beginning to fall more heavily, slowing my progress as I slip repeatedly on the greasy and poorly surfaced pavements.
With the initial shock subsiding I curse my bad luck. In my meticulous planning I’d envisaged numerous shit-hits-the-fan scenarios but never that I’d be witnessed in the act and the police would be after me so quickly. Of course by now I’d hoped, with Musgrove dead and my crime unwitnessed, that I’d be calmly heading to the train station and on to the airport hotel before my flight to Rio de Janeiro and safety. I know it’s a cliché for fugitives to head for South America but it seemed the ideal solution. Once in my discreet rented apartment, I would keep tabs on the internet and TV news and if there was any hint that the authorities suspected my involvement, I would keep my head down and stay put. On the other hand, if I were in the clear I’d return to Britain at my leisure. But no more; the elements of my contingency plan are now a
t the fore of my thinking and it’s essential that I get to the first of my bolt-holes in Graves Park to regroup before the push to the more secure hideaway in the remote Peak District National Park.
Born and raised in Sheffield, I’m intimately familiar with the geography and the many public parks and woodland that link, almost without interruption, the centre of town to Graves Park on the outskirts and from there to the isolation of the Peak District beyond. But first I must get away from the built-up areas where I’m sure capture is more likely, and reach Millhouses Park, the first link in the chain of quiet and secluded parklands that I pray will be my route to freedom.
My thighs are burning and my chest tightening but I keep going. Buoyed up by the surge of adrenaline and the desperate desire to avoid capture, I run through the largely residential streets with the footsteps and heavy breathing of the chasing copper becoming gradually fainter. The wailing siren from the police transit is also beginning to fade: presumably the narrow streets with speed bumps and one-way sections limit the promptness of the police to give chase or to organize any form of roadblock.
Millhouses Park, my immediate goal, is now less than a couple of miles away. I leave behind the narrow streets of Linton Green and run through the more affluent area of suburban Millhouses where the roads are wider and tree-lined. There are fewer pedestrians but more traffic on the road and I’ve no doubt that every passing motorist is questioning my bizarre behaviour. Wearing everyday clothes and running at speed at this time of night, it’s difficult to look anything but suspicious, but I can’t afford to worry about it now. I have to keep going. I set myself targets to reach: next lamppost, next junction, next red car; anything to keep the momentum going.
