Blood Axe

by Leigh Russell

  ‘Algiz,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The symbol you just showed me.’

  ‘The sign on the bruise?’

  ‘Yes. It looks like algiz, the rune for protection.’

  Ian wondered if it might be significant that Oliver recognised the particular symbol straight away.

  ‘You must know all the runes? That’s pretty impressive.’

  Oliver shook his head. His expression was difficult to read. ‘It’s only another alphabet really,’ he explained, ‘although each symbol represents something, not just a sound like our alphabet.’

  ‘So do you know them all?’ Ian pressed him.

  Oliver sighed softly. ‘I used to,’ he admitted. ‘I was a bit of a geek in a way, I suppose. I still know all the major ones, but I’m a bit hazy on a few of them now.’

  Ian didn’t push the point. Apart from confirming what the owner of the missing axe had told Ian about the symbol on its blade, Oliver was not much help. He had no idea where a blade like that might have been obtained and claimed to know nothing about the theft of a similar weapon at the Viking Festival. When Ian expressed surprise, telling him the theft had been reported in the press, Oliver merely shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Well, I never saw it.’

  ‘We’re all sort of experts in one way or another here, but weapons and fighting aren’t really my thing. What interests me is the way the people lived, what they wore and what they ate, things about their everyday lives. That’s what I’ve been researching mainly. Of course I’m not really what you’d call an expert. I’ve just studied Viking society enough to talk about it to members of the public, and to be able to answer basic questions. It’s part of our job, being able to tell visitors to the place about the exhibits and where they come from. That’s what makes working here so interesting. I’m learning all the time. But weapons aren’t really my thing.’ He gave an apologetic grimace.

  Ian didn’t tell him that Ralph had referred to him as the weapons expert. The young man barely hesitated when Ian asked him where he had been on the two evenings when the murders had been carried out.

  ‘I don’t know what I was doing that Sunday,’ he said straight away, ‘I just can’t remember.’

  Oliver’s alibi was inconclusive.

  Sophie was next to be questioned. She was twenty-two. Recently graduated in archaeology at the University of York, like Oliver she had found a job there. Originally from London, she hadn’t wanted to leave the area.

  ‘I’m settled here.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’ Ian asked amiably.

  Sophie bristled. ‘No.’

  Ian studied her. With a face framed by pink hair which faded into blonde strands that hung to her shoulders, she looked like an art student.

  ‘My area is the volur,’ she announced.

  Ian grunted, pretending to know what she was talking about; something to do with the Vikings no doubt. If it wasn’t weapons, he wasn’t really interested.

  ‘Magic,’ she explained.

  ‘Fascinating,’ Ian fibbed. ‘You must know just about everything there is to know on the subject.’

  The flattery worked to some extent.

  ‘We have to be able to answer questions from visitors,’ Sophie explained, unbending slightly.

  ‘Tell me about the volur.’

  Her face relaxed into a smile. She spoke as though to children, launching into what sounded like a well-rehearsed lecture.

  ‘The volur is the name given to women who practised magic. These women were very influential in Viking society. The people then had strong beliefs in magic, and almost every story that has come down to us includes an element of magic or the supernatural. These beliefs coloured everything. Although today people generally think that warriors were the only really important members of Viking society, these women were very powerful. The volur were sort of sorceresses, and were often buried with their metal staffs and amulets. That’s how we know so much about them, because of the artefacts that have been discovered in their graves, some of them immensely valuable, and always buried with women. They believed the soul was like a thread which was sent out when people died – or sometimes while they were still alive – and the volur could retrieve people’s souls by winding them up on their staffs. Basically everyone had a hamingia, or spirit, that was independent of the person who owned it, as well as having external spirit guardians.’

  ‘Like a guardian angel,’ Ian remarked.

  Carefully he moved the conversation round to the missing axe. Sophie didn’t seem interested.

  ‘I don’t have anything to do with the weapons,’ she said firmly. ‘The volur are what interest me.’

  Sophie readily supplied her alibi for the times of both murders. She had been with her flatmate on the Sunday evening and on her way home from work on the Wednesday.

  ‘Were you travelling alone?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t the only person on the bus that day, but I didn’t get the names of the other passengers.’

  Her attempted flippancy sat uneasily on her.

  35

  Jimmy Sutherland was the next member of staff to be summoned. A cheerful man of around forty with boyish good looks, he greeted Ian with a grin. His role was to organise the team of curators who worked in the museum, answering questions from members of the public.

  ‘Well, that’s an appropriate use for a Viking axe, wouldn’t you say?’ he responded, when Ian explained about the replica axe. ‘Better than being stuck in a glass case at any rate.’

  ‘Better in what way, exactly?’

  Jimmy just winked. It proved difficult to get a straight answer out of him. He seemed to find everything amusing. Ian wondered if he was a bit simple. Even when Ian became quite aggressive, Jimmy didn’t seem at all troubled. Despite his training in remaining detached, Ian was slightly disappointed to discover that Jimmy had not been in York the day Angela had been murdered. He said he had been away in London for a long weekend, visiting a friend, only returning to York by train on Monday morning, and going back to work on Tuesday. Ian believed him. His alibi was easy enough to confirm so there would be little point in his lying. All the same, Ian made a note to check out Jimmy’s alibi. Warning him not to leave York, Ian let Jimmy go.

  Apart from the operational staff upstairs who organised marketing and events, as well as the curators who answered questions from members of the public visiting the museum, there were a couple of receptionists, and two girls who served in the gift shop. Ian summoned the operational staff together, curious to observe their interaction. By contrast to Jimmy, Ralph was clearly dismayed by the use of a replica axe to kill people.

  ‘This could be bad publicity for us,’ he said.

  ‘Might be a good thing. No publicity is bad publicity,’ Jimmy responded. ‘These aren’t just any artefacts we’re talking about,’ Ralph insisted earnestly. ‘Our artefacts date back over a thousand years. If they’re mishandled or used disrespectfully, that’s never a good thing. That’s why we have to be so careful not to allow just anyone to handle them. They stay locked up where no one can touch them.’

  ‘It’s only a replica,’ Jimmy pointed out. ‘Not even a copy of one of ours. We don’t have an axe with that rune carved on it, do we?’

  Ralph shrugged. ‘It’s impossible to say what many of our axe heads looked like originally.’

  On the face of it, the staff at the Jorvik museum had nothing very useful to add to what Ian knew about the missing axe. Oliver had explained the significance of the rune carved on the blade, but Ian could have discovered that for himself by looking up runes on the internet. Even so, he left the museum with a faint sense of unease. He wished he had brought Ted with him. A second pair of eyes was always useful, and he couldn’t help feeling he had missed something.

  Back at the police station Ian sat at his desk trying to think, but non
e of the information he had gathered seemed to point to any clear conclusion. He wrote up his report and studied what the other officers had found out from the rest of the staff at Jorvik before he summoned Ted so they could discuss what they had discovered. Ian couldn’t help feeling there was something odd about Oliver.

  ‘Well, it does seem suggestive that Ralph told you Oliver was a weapons expert, and Oliver denied it,’ Ted agreed. ‘But expert is a very loose term.’

  They agreed that the most obvious suspect wasn’t necessarily the right one. There was no reason to suppose the killer had anything to do with Jorvik at all.

  Just as Ian began to feel they were going round in circles George, the profiler, wandered into the office. He perched on the edge of Ian’s desk and twisted his head round to look at him. With a slow smile he raised an eyebrow interrogatively. Ian just shrugged. With a nod, George spoke.

  ‘Maybe we know more than you think.’ He paused. ‘Let’s go over what you’ve discovered since we last spoke.’

  Ian hesitated.

  ‘We’re a bit suspicious of one of the guys who works at the Jorvik museum,’ Ted said.

  George swivelled round to glance up at Ted, who had stepped forward and was standing beside Ian’s desk.

  ‘Why’s that? Go on, tell me what you’re thinking,’ George invited the sergeant.

  Ted glanced at Ian who nodded.

  ‘Interesting,’ the profiler muttered when Ted had finished his summary of their findings. ‘But this is just an overview. What’s your gut feeling, Ian? You mentioned a suspicion.’

  ‘We think Oliver Hemmings may be hiding something,’ Ted interjected as Ian hesitated. ‘Ralph told us Oliver was an expert in weapons, but Oliver denied it. We thought that was significant. And he seemed very interested in the axe. We thought that might mean something, too.’

  Ian felt a rush of sympathy for his young colleague who was so desperate to find some clarity in the confusion of an investigation which was, so far, going nowhere.

  ‘It may be significant that he was interested in telling you about the rune on the missing axe. It’s often the case that people who have some interest in a case, for whatever reason, are keen to follow the investigation,’ George said.

  ‘You mean he might be the murderer, and he wants to get involved with us to find out how much we know?’

  George laughed. ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but yes, it’s certainly a possibility. How strong is his alibi for the times of the murders?’

  ‘We’re following up alibis from everyone who works there,’ Ian assured him, ‘although we’re grasping at straws here. There’s nothing to suggest anyone who works there had any connection to the murders. They don’t have any similar axes there, and none have gone missing. We’ve been pursuing all the stall holders who were there for the past few years, but so far we haven’t found anyone who was selling replicas with runes like the one on the axe head we’re looking for. That ties in with Andrew’s claim that the one he bought was the only one with that rune engraved on it. From the timing it seems likely that the killer’s using the axe stolen from Andrew Hilton at the Festival in February, but even if that’s not the case, we haven’t yet made any headway tracing other similar axes.’

  Stolen from Andrew Hilton, the axe had vanished, leaving a trail of death in its wake.

  36

  A weapon that killed deserved the honour of a name. Now that his blade had proved its worth, he named it Biter. It was a good name for an axe. Although his arm ached to wave a sword, he knew that a long blade would be almost impossible to conceal in public. Sooner or later it would mean his capture, betrayed by the very weapon that should protect him. Such a fate must be avoided at all costs; falling into the hands of his enemies would result in ignominy. To die in captivity was a shameful end for a warrior whose destiny was a glorious death in battle. He was a mighty warrior, a shape-shifter. Prowling the streets as a wolf, in the heat of battle he became a bear. Why should his axe not change shape too, and become a sword?

  It was time to sharpen the blade. Every time he held Biter in his hand he risked discovery, but he had no choice. As a warrior, he was trained to attack; his weapon must be ready for battle too. He had used it several times, concealing it swiftly once his mission was completed. Fear of discovery must not threaten his success. Slashing through bone had blunted Biter’s cutting edge. He wouldn’t risk his life, and more importantly his honour, by letting the blade rust, dishonoured in a forgotten hiding place. He had to make sure Biter was ready for the next raid. There was no time to waste. The moon god would not help him with this task. It had to be done in darkness. None but his victims would ever thrill at the sight of his weapon outlined against the night sky. With Biter in his grasp he was invincible. Without Biter he was naked.

  The wolf ran on its hind legs. Speed and silence were its protection. If anyone attacked the beast, it could slash a man’s throat with its powerful jaws. But no one challenged him. He ran swiftly along the pavement, passing unseen through the night. Reaching his destination, he glanced around, peering through the darkness, alert to the slightest sound. Satisfied, he let the wolf slip away and he was a man once more, tall and bold. It was time to feel Biter in his hand again. He was only complete when he had his weapon in his hand. Without Biter he was a cripple, a weak woman.

  Quickly he made his way along the river path. Having made sure no one was watching, he pulled at a loose panel in the wall until it shifted to one side, allowing his shadow to slip through. His boat lay waiting patiently in the ditch. He crouched and scrabbled in the earth, until his searching fingers closed on the wooden handle. It felt warm in his palm, the cold blade harsh on his skin. He shivered at its beauty. A warrior was only as effective as his weapon. Biter could not only kill at a single well-aimed blow, it offered him the protection of the gods. But only if the blade was razor sharp

  To begin with he had taken Biter home with him and sharpened it in his room. Conscious that every journey he undertook with his weapon beneath his cloak was dangerous, he resolved to take it out of hiding only when using it for its proper purpose. So instead of moving the axe, he packed his tools in a rucksack. Slinging the heavy bag over his shoulder, he stole down to the river and worked on the blade at night, when the path was deserted. No one could hear him working there, concealed behind the wall. It was a lengthy process. First he cleaned and polished the blade with steel wool to remove any vestiges of dried blood and other detritus left over from his last kill. Then he rubbed it firmly with sandpaper. To make sure it was properly clean, he went over it again with a finer, gritty sandpaper until it felt really smooth. Using a rag, he applied metal polishing paste before clamping the blade with a vice to one of the posts on the wall. Even with the axe fixed in position, he was careful, aware of the danger if his hand slipped.

  It took hours to file the blade using broad strokes that strained the muscles all the way along his arm. He filed one side, then the other, then repeated the process again. Frowning with concentration, he focussed on his task. Now and again he paused, his heartbeat accompanied by the pounding of footsteps as occasionally, on the other side of the wall, he heard someone running along the river path. From time to time he heard voices approach and waited, motionless, his arm poised, until the strangers had walked by. Bicycles were the worst threat as they passed without a sound. When he was sure the path was clear, he would resume sharpening his axe. Happy in his task, he felt like singing, but he kept quiet. He could be careful as well as bold. Concealment was essential to his success. The gods would not protect a man from his own foolishness. It took several nights. By the time he was finished, his shoulders and arms ached, but it was worth the effort. Biter was sharp as a razor, sharp enough to slice through bone.

  37

  George’s face was pinched with worry. His sharp chin and pointed nose seemed to stick out more than ever. Remembering his nickname, The Wizard, Ian
wished George would work some magic and come up with an identity, but George appeared to know even less than they did about the killer.

  ‘You think the killer’s using an axe stolen at the Viking Festival?’ he repeated at last.

  ‘We already suspected something along those lines had been used,’ Ian said. ‘The post mortem indicated an unusual blade, not quite like axes you can get nowadays. And the missing axe had a rune engraved on the blade that appears to match a pattern found on a bruise on the first victim.’

  ‘So you think the axe used in these two murders was the one stolen from the Festival?’ the profiler repeated. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ian replied. ‘As sure as we can be, that is. The evidence points that way. Our research indicates such a blade is unusual. And the murders began shortly after the Festival.’

  ‘We’re as certain as we can be without absolute proof,’ Eileen added, with a touch of uncertainty.

  There was a pause. They could all see the profiler was disturbed by this news, although it wasn’t yet clear why it had affected him.

  ‘What’s all the fuss?’ Naomi muttered. ‘An axe is an axe. If we don’t know who stole the axe from the Festival, what difference does it make if that’s the one the killer used?’ She stared out of the window, idly smoothing her hair down.