Blood Axe

by Leigh Russell

  He had studied the descriptions of his exploits. They knew about his long cloak. It would be dangerous to wear the bloodstained garment again, equally dangerous to buy a new one. People would be on the lookout for a warrior of his stature enquiring about cloaks. He was too wily to give himself away like that. All the same, his old cloak had been bloodied in too many skirmishes, apart from which it was torn, ripped in a way that might make it too distinctive to allow him to slip through the streets unnoticed. He would have to get rid of it. In the meantime, he bundled it up and shoved it in the back of his wardrobe. He would drop it into one of the large waste bins the night before they were next emptied to minimise any risk of discovery. The people tracking him were clever, with their dogs and their divers, but he would stay one step ahead of them. For all their science, they were fools, their ignorance his protection.

  The gods inspired him to make a new cloak from his blanket. With a cord threaded through one side and gathered to make a hood, it worked well enough. One advantage was that the new cloak looked very different to the old one. It was much shorter, with more material gathered around his shoulders. No one would recognise him from the blurry image the police had published, taken from a CCTV film. Before leaving the flat he returned his bag of treasure to its tin and stored it under the floor. Then he rolled his cloak under his arm and went out. Rain pattered around him. The heavy cloudburst had lightened into a steady downpour. It was enough to keep most people off the streets. Occasional passersby took no notice of him when they scurried by, rushing to escape the rain. As he trotted along the familiar route towards the river, he was filled with a sense of wellbeing. Thor had cleared the way for him to clean his weapon. The gods favoured the valiant.

  By the time he reached the river the rain had eased but still the path was deserted. Silently and swiftly he stole through the night. Under the railway bridge he paused to slip on his homemade cloak. Fingers stiff with cold pulled the hood up to hide his face, the woolly fabric rough against his cheeks. If anyone passed him they wouldn’t see his face. After a quick look around, he squeezed through the broken wall and his hand closed on the handle of his axe. With a surge of pride he began wiping the razor-sharp blade, lovingly cleaning and polishing. It took a while to clean off the blood but he persisted. A warrior who failed to honour his weapon could have no self-respect, and no success. From time to time he checked the gleaming metal in the light of his torch, shielded by his cloak. At length he was satisfied.

  It was late by the time he finished, and the rain had completely stopped. Leaving Biter hidden behind the wall, he pushed his way back on to the path. In the shelter of the railway bridge he pulled off his cloak and rolled it up. Tucking it under his arm, he set off, trudging towards home. Tired from his evening’s exertions, he didn’t notice a uniformed figure approaching until it was too late to slip into the bushes, out of sight. He was sure the policeman would hear his heart, it was pounding so loudly. Biter was way out of reach behind the wall on the other side of the railway bridge. He was on his own.

  ‘You’re out late,’ the policeman said, blocking his path.

  ‘Just on my way home.’

  ‘Do you mind my asking what you’re carrying under your arm?’

  ‘This? It’s a blanket,’ he answered, unrolling his cloak and shaking it out. He was careful to keep the gathered hood in his grasp, so the alteration wasn’t visible. ‘I was sitting on it.’

  ‘Having a picnic, were you?’

  At first he didn’t realise the policeman was joking.

  ‘Best get off home,’ the policeman went on. ‘It’s not a good idea to be out after dark on your own.’

  With lowered eyes he listened to the policeman warn him against wandering around the streets at night. He had to struggle not to laugh, because the policeman was warning him against himself.

  50

  On Monday morning Ian was summoned to an interview room. Sophie had come to the station and insisted on speaking to him in person. Wishing he was away from his office, he asked Naomi to accompany him.

  ‘This is probably going to be a waste of time,’ he warned her. ‘I think she might just be making up an excuse to see me.’

  ‘Ooh, someone has a high opinion of himself.’

  All the same, she dropped what she was doing and went with him.

  ‘DC Naomi Arthur is here to observe,’ Ian said when they arrived.

  Sophie paid no attention to the constable who sat at Ian’s side, watching her.

  ‘You asked me – that is, you asked us – if we’ve noticed anything unusual.’

  Ian nodded without speaking.

  ‘Well,’ Sophie hesitated.

  ‘Go on,’ Naomi encouraged her.

  Ian concealed his impatience and waited in silence. He wondered if it was ridiculous to suspect she was disappointed at not seeing him alone.

  ‘You asked if we’d noticed any strange activity in the museum recently,’ she repeated, parroting his words back at him. ‘Well, I have.’

  Her expression grew increasingly earnest, while her fingers fidgeted in her lap. She was definitely nervous. Ian wished he knew why. If it wasn’t because she fancied him, then there might genuinely be something amiss. He focussed, determined to take her seriously.

  ‘I’ve seen the same man in there, and I recognised him from the paper. It’s the man who was arrested before, that girl’s father, the girl who was killed.’

  Ian was surprised. This was the second time Sophie had accused Frank of being involved with the murders. Dana had thought she recognised him too. He proceeded carefully.

  ‘Are you sure it was him?’

  She nodded her head vigorously. ‘Yes. Absolutely. I recognised him.’

  ‘What makes you think he was doing anything unusual?’

  ‘Strange,’ she corrected him, as though that made any difference. ‘He was just hanging around a lot. He kept coming back, reading the signs on all the weapons, and studying them. Weapons isn’t my thing, my area is the volur, you know, the women who practised magic. It was really important in Viking culture. Anyway, I wasn’t in the weapons section all the time, I was just walking through, so I don’t know how long he was standing there. It just seemed that every time I walked through he was there, staring at the axe heads. It was weird. He made me feel uncomfortable.’

  ‘How often did you see him there?’

  ‘I don’t know, I didn’t count. But he kept coming back and hanging around the weapons, as though he was watching them. Like I said, it was weird. He gave me the creeps. I was scared, so I came to tell you straight away, like you asked.’

  She blushed and looked down.

  ‘Thank you, we’ll look into it. And if you see him there again, please call us immediately.’

  ‘OK. I’ve got your number.’

  ‘My work number,’ he corrected her, conscious of Naomi sitting at his side.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ the constable said when they were walking back along the corridor. ‘She’s got the hots for you all right.’

  Ian smiled uneasily. He would prefer never to see Sophie again, but she seemed inclined to confide in him. He couldn’t afford to rebuff her. She might be a time waster, but with luck she could turn out to be a star witness in the case. It was possible she had just given them a crucial lead. He and Naomi went to discuss the development with Eileen. Her eyes narrowed when she heard what had happened.

  ‘That’s two girls who have seen Frank acting suspiciously.’

  Ian was more cautious, pointing out that Dana’s description had not been clear cut. She had merely seen a bald man with a beard.

  ‘She recognised his picture.’

  ‘She thought she did.’

  ‘Ian,’ Eileen said gently, ‘don’t let your marital situation cloud your judgement. Not all women are unreliable.’

  Remembering his scepticism about
Zoe’s claim that Gary had raped Angela, Ian felt awkward. Eileen had got him all wrong. He wasn’t distrustful of women, and his marriage was fine. He told her so as firmly as he could.

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ the detective chief inspector replied.

  Ian vaguely recalled mentioning to someone that his wife had gone to see her parents for the second weekend in a row. As a result of that one harmless remark, it seemed tongues had been wagging. Mortified to realise he was the subject of gossip at the station he resolved to keep quiet about his private life in future.

  ‘Now, about Frank,’ Eileen went on, ‘we know he’s denied being anywhere near the crime scenes, but how do we explain his interest in the weapons in Jorvik? It sounds as though Sophie has been putting two and two together.’

  Ian wasn’t sure that needed any explanation. ‘Surely a man – or a woman – can stop and look at exhibits in a museum without attracting suspicion. And don’t forget, Sophie saw Frank’s face in the paper. She must know he was brought in for questioning. Anyone following the case knows that. The bloody papers give so much away, it’s criminal. She’s young, and she might be suggestible. Probably she saw Frank in Jorvik, but she could be reading too much into it. I daresay she was scared when she saw him. He’s been accused, and we let him go. She saw him hanging around the museum and might have been alarmed, but that’s no indication he’s guilty.’

  He thought it was understandable that Frank might want to look at the weapons in an attempt to find out in more detail just what had happened to his stepdaughter. Wanting to know what had happened was a common response to bereavement. Sophie was an observant girl, of a nervous disposition. She might well have put two and two together and come up with the wrong answer. He agreed it looked a bit suspicious, but was reluctant to jump to any conclusions.

  ‘It’s possible she misunderstood, but she’s the second witness to identify Frank. We need to look into this,’ Eileen said. ‘Let’s have another chat with Frank, and this time I want his alibis scrutinised and taken apart. I want his movements accounted for every second of the time frame for these murders. This killer’s operating in a small area. If Frank could have slipped off unnoticed, I want to know about it.’

  ‘He has a car,’ Naomi added. ‘He could have followed Beryl out of town and flagged her down.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Eileen agreed.

  Meena and her team set to work scrutinising CCTV footage once again, searching for Frank at the entrance to the Jorvik museum. Another team examined the roads leading to the A64 to Leeds, looking for Frank’s car out on the road on Thursday evening.

  ‘If we don’t see him, it doesn’t mean he wasn’t there,’ Eileen said. There was a hint of desperation in her voice.

  51

  Frank strenuously denied having spent time at Jorvik museum. To begin with, when they were questioning him at home, he claimed he hadn’t been there at all, saying the place was for children. When Ian pointed out that ticket sales and CCTV would confirm whether he had visited the museum, he changed his story. That in itself was suspicious. They took him back to the police station and left him to sweat in a cell while they checked the museum records. He had been to the museum, but only once, after his stepdaughter’s death. Eileen wondered if the museum’s ticket sales were accurate.

  ‘He could have paid cash.’

  ‘Sophie could have been mistaken,’ Ian countered.

  They went back to the interview room.

  ‘How many times have you visited Jorvik this month?’ Eileen asked.

  Frank looked surprised. ‘I don’t understand why you’re still on about the Viking museum.’

  ‘Answer the question please.’

  Frank passed his hand over his forehead. He was sweating. ‘What was the question again?’

  Eileen repeated it.

  ‘I went there, yes. All right, I went there. So what? It’s not a bloody crime, is it?’

  ‘How many times did you go there in the past month?’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘Why did you go there?’

  According to Frank he had wanted to see what the axe that had killed his stepdaughter might have looked like.

  ‘Why did you want to see it?’

  He shrugged. ‘I just wanted to. I can’t explain why. I don’t know.’

  Eileen leaned forward. ‘You went there on more than one occasion, didn’t you?’

  ‘I already told you I went the once, just to see.’

  ‘We have a witness who saw you there several times in the past two weeks.’

  He shook his head, puzzled, muttering that Eileen was mistaken.

  ‘We have a witness,’ she repeated.

  ‘Then your witness has got it wrong. He’s mistaken, or else someone’s stitching me up.’

  Frank’s protest appeared genuine. His denial suggested a new possibility. Eileen and Ian retired to her office to discuss the idea that, rather than being mistaken, Sophie could be deliberately lying to frame Frank. It seemed unlikely, but they had to explore every avenue. Privately Ian thought it was no more far-fetched a notion than to suspect Frank had killed his own stepdaughter, and two other people. Whoever the killer was, it was still hard to believe anyone was out and about in York hacking members of the public to death. Meanwhile Frank appeared outraged by Sophie’s accusation.

  There was no sign of Frank on the road on Thursday evening. CCTV and ticket sales confirmed that he had visited Jorvik Museum only once, on the Tuesday two days after Angela had been killed. It was time to put pressure on Sophie. Leaving Ted to look into Frank’s background more closely, Ian took Naomi with him to Jorvik. He needed to speak to Sophie again and get to the bottom of her lying.

  While Ralph went to fetch Sophie, Ian and Naomi waited in one of the small offices above the museum. They sat in silence. Although he wanted to conduct the interview himself, Ian wasn’t quite sure how to handle Sophie. He hesitated to ask Naomi’s advice. As an experienced inspector, he was worried it might seem inappropriate for him to be asking for guidance from a young constable. On balance, he decided it was best to tackle Sophie in his own way. He hadn’t messed up questioning a witness yet. Still, he felt almost unbearably tense as the door opened.

  He led into the conversation gently, assuring Sophie that her information had been very useful and the police were very appreciative of her help. He hoped he wasn’t laying it on too thickly. Naomi threw him an impatient frown, but Sophie looked happy. At last he reached the crux of the interview.

  ‘How well do you know Frank Carter?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Frank Carter. Angela Jones’ father. You might know him as Frank Jones.’

  Sophie stared blankly at him. She didn’t look worried, just puzzled. Ian explained that he was talking about the stepfather of the girl who had been killed.

  ‘Oh,’ Sophie drew in a deep breath. ‘Oh, of course. Frank. I wondered who you were talking about. I should have known. I knew his name was Frank because I saw it in the paper. But I didn’t actually know him. I never met the girl that was murdered. That’s why I didn’t get who you were talking about straight away.’

  ‘So how can you be so sure you saw him at the museum?’

  ‘I recognised him from his picture in the paper.’

  ‘You must have very sharp eyes,’ Naomi interjected.

  Sophie spoke to Ian. ‘What does she mean?’

  ‘It wasn’t a clear picture in the paper,’ Ian explained, turning his head slightly to glare at Naomi. ‘And it’s a few weeks since you saw him at the museum…’

  ‘No, he was there again yesterday. That’s why I was so sure it was him in the paper. And I saw him again this morning.’

  ‘What time did you see him in the museum?’ Naomi asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Sophie had lost any semblance of self-assurance. Her face h
ad turned pale and her fingers were fidgeting as they had done when she had been at the police station.

  Ian leaned forward and spoke very gently. He wanted Sophie to focus just on him. That way he hoped he might be able to persuade her to open up. She was lying and he wanted to know why.

  ‘You didn’t see Frank here yesterday, Sophie, because he wasn’t here yesterday. And he wasn’t here this morning either. We know that. So what I want you to tell me is why you’re lying to me.’

  ‘I’m not lying.’ Ian swore under his breath as Sophie began to cry. ‘I thought it was him. I really did. I’m just so scared. I think I’m being followed, and what if he’s the killer?’

  They couldn’t keep Frank in a cell based on the accusation of a hysterical frightened girl.

  ‘I think she was confused, and she’s clearly very frightened about the killer,’ Ian said.

  ‘She’s a deluded idiot,’ Naomi said firmly. ‘She’s just trying to get Ian to notice her.’

  ‘Like that, is it?’ Eileen said. ‘Let’s not waste any more time on her in that case.’

  Ian felt equally dismissive of Sophie. All the same, he still wanted to check on the girl’s alibi. The trouble was that a private meeting with a hysterical girl who fancied him could result in awkward allegations. He hated himself for his suspicions, but he had nearly been caught out once before. As a young constable, he had been accused of making improper advances. Luckily the interview had taken place at the police station so the exchange had been recorded. Nevertheless, it had made him nervous about conducting interviews on his own with women who might behave inappropriately. He decided to approach her discreetly in public on the museum floor. It was too late to do so that day.