Blood Axe

by Leigh Russell

  He raised his fork. Runny yolk dripped on to his plate.

  ‘If I swallowed a mouthful of that shit, I’d throw up,’ Ted said.

  Ian nodded cheerily. ‘That’s another way to cure a hangover.’

  ‘Thanks for that. You’re in a good mood.’

  It was true. Ian thought for a moment. Instead of feeling devastated by the breakdown of his marriage, he felt elated.

  ‘We caught the killer,’ he said at last.

  ‘And you’re going to be a dad.’

  Ian paused, fork in mid air. ‘Oh, that,’ he replied as carelessly as he could. ‘No, that’s not going to happen. At least it is, but I won’t be there to see it. We’re not together any more.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She left me.’

  ‘But she’s pregnant…’

  ‘It’s complicated.’ Ian leaned forward. ‘I’d appreciate a bit of discretion here, but the truth is – well, I don’t know what the truth is.’

  As he was speaking, it occurred to Ian that his hangover hadn’t hit yet. He was still drunk. He probably shouldn’t have driven into work that morning. All at once his mind began darting around, out of control. The thought of Bev giving birth without him at her side was unbearably sad. She would be all on her own. Worse, another man might be there in his place. She had told him the baby wasn’t his. That meant she was seeing someone else. He shook his head, forcing a mental shutter to close out the disturbing thoughts. He had believed he was fine with it, but he wasn’t ready to think about losing Bev yet. None of it seemed real: her pregnancy, their split, her affair – it was all like a horrible dream. He wanted to cling to his state of disbelief for a little longer. He regretted having confided in Ted.

  ‘Don’t mention this to anyone at all, ever,’ he said fiercely.

  ‘Silent as the grave.’

  They sat for a moment without speaking.

  ‘So, how was your evening?’ Ian asked at last, with forced good humour.

  ‘Oh shit. I’m sorry – it’s not the best time to be saying this, but Jenny and me are engaged.’

  Ian couldn’t help laughing at his sergeant’s stricken expression.

  Scowling, Ted pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘I’d better get to work.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. To be honest, I’m still a bit pissed.’

  What he should have said was ‘congratulations,’ or ‘commiserations,’ but he just laughed again. He couldn’t help it.

  ‘Do you think there’s a kind of balance in the universe?’ Ted asked, sitting down again, Ian’s apology clearly accepted. ‘You lost a wife, I gain one. Almost like there’s a finite number of marriages possible in the world.’

  ‘Stop talking shit and go and write up your report, if you’re not prepared to do something sensible like join me for breakfast.’

  Grumbling that he never should have sat down to watch Ian eat, Ted left. Ian finished his breakfast and made his way along the corridor to his office. Scene of crime officers had finished examining Sophie’s room. Ian wasn’t surprised to learn the search team had discovered a hoard of small metal objects, mostly coins and jewellery, hidden under a loose floorboard beneath Sophie’s bed. Some of the jewellery matched the description of Beryl’s rings. When it was all over, and evidence could be released, he would make sure Beryl’s rings were returned to her husband. It would be a paltry comfort. Apart from a few cheap pieces, the other jewellery came from Tim’s shop. It was a slight comfort to know that all of the identifiable property in Sophie’s stash was accounted for. There was nothing to suggest she had killed anyone else.

  Ian and Ted faced Sophie across a table. The preliminaries had been dealt with. It was time to start the formal questioning. Ian was glad the interview was being taped, not filmed. Unshaven, with slightly bloodshot eyes, Ted looked as though he had been sleeping rough. A faint sprinkling of dandruff on his shoulders added to his unkempt appearance. Straightening his tie, Ian noticed a patch of crusty yellow on his creased shirt where egg yolk had dripped. By contrast, Sophie looked surprisingly fresh-faced and clean despite having spent a night in a cell. An uninformed observer might conclude that she was the professional police officer, questioning a pair of dodgy characters.

  With enough evidence to secure a conviction, they should only need to go through the motions. Their job was made easier by Sophie’s refusal to be represented by a lawyer. All the same, Ian was on his guard. Even at this late stage in the proceedings it could all go terribly wrong if he failed to adhere to strict procedures. The Police and Criminal Evidence Act had tripped officers up before on cases that should have resulted in straightforward convictions. Regulating police treatment of the public was necessary to make sure officers didn’t exceed their powers, but it made interviewing suspects a minefield. In this instance it would not only be a travesty of the justice system if Sophie were released on a legal technicality, it would let a dangerous psychopath loose. Eileen was away or she would have been present. As it was, the future safety of the streets depended on two hungover detectives. Ian took a deep breath and began.

  67

  ‘Sophie, you’ve been arrested on suspicion of the murders of Angela Jones, Timothy Granger, Beryl Morrison and Andrea Shelton. Do you understand?’

  Sophie gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘I didn’t know their names, did I? I mean, what difference does it make what they were called? It never made any difference to me, and it makes no difference to them now, does it?’

  ‘Are you saying you admit to killing those people just mentioned?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, do I? How do I know who Angela Jones, Andrea Shelton, and all those others are? I’ve never heard any of those names before in my life so there’s no point in even talking about them.’

  She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest as though to signal that she had nothing more to say. Ian drew four photographs out of a file and placed them side by side on the table in front of her.

  ‘Do you recognise these faces? We can sit here as long as you like but you’ll need to look at them sooner or later. We can wait all day if you want to carry on playing games, but it won’t help your cause.’

  ‘Oh all right, keep your hair on. Jesus.’

  ‘The photographs,’ Ian repeated quietly.

  It was hard to believe the laid-back young woman facing him across the table was the snarling beast they had arrested the previous day.

  Sophie glanced at each of the images in turn. ‘Very nice.’

  ‘Do you recognise these people?’

  ‘Difficult to say, really.’

  Ian placed the axe on the table. He was careful not to nick a hole in the plastic evidence bag protecting it from any risk of contamination. He had been warned that the blade was sharp. Sophie’s eyes lit up at the sight of it, the first indication that she really was the insane perpetrator of a recent spate of horrendous murders.

  ‘Have you seen this before? For the tape, I’m showing the suspect the murder weapon.’

  Sophie hesitated.

  ‘The axe had your DNA all over it. Your breath, your sweat, even your blood where you must have cut yourself. So, I’ll ask you again, for the record, to confirm that this is your axe.’ He paused before asking whether she wanted to reconsider legal representation.

  Sophie reached out and touched the plastic on the handle with one finger. Her features softened in a smile, making her look young and vulnerable. Ian reflected ruefully how wrong his initial impression of her had been.

  ‘This is Biter,’ she said softly, ignoring his suggestion that a lawyer be present to advise her.

  ‘So you admit you’ve seen it before?’ He waited. ‘I need an answer, Sophie. Have you seen this axe before?’

  ‘This is Biter.’

  ‘It’s yours, isn’t it?’

  She didn’t answer.
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  ‘Why Biter?’ Ian asked, adopting an oblique approach in the hope of drawing her out. ‘Biter’s an odd name for an axe, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a perfect name for an axe.’

  Ian watched her gazing at the murder weapon. From her expression she could have been watching a kitten. He felt a sudden flash of rage, but he spoke in an even tone.

  ‘You used that axe to hack four people to death.’

  She didn’t even look up.

  ‘It’s hard to believe anyone could do that, let alone a delicate woman like you,’ Ted chipped in.

  He couldn’t have chosen a better way to provoke a response. Sophie looked at him and laughed.

  ‘That shows how stupid you are. You’re all stupid. All of you. You believe I’m a woman, but I’m not. Not really. Not at all. Sophie is just one of many shapes I can assume at will. I’m a shape shifter. I can change into any shape I like. This is my true shape.’

  She pushed her shoulders back and sat up very straight, seeming to grow in height. With a rigid frown on her face, she looked surprisingly fierce for such a slight woman.

  ‘Now do you understand?’ she roared in a deep voice that seemed to reverberate round the room. She rose to her feet with a triumphant laugh. ‘I am a mighty warrior. That puny woman, Sophie, is just one of my disguises. I am a fierce and mighty man, a warrior hero and I will never be conquered so long as the gods protect me. I can escape your thraldom any time I like, because I can adopt whatever shape I please.’

  ‘Including a yapping dog?’ Ian asked, remembering what Naomi had said.

  ‘I am a wolf.’

  She dropped to the floor, her hands still cuffed, and crouched there howling like a wild beast.

  ‘Get up.’

  Ian nodded at two uniformed constables standing by the door.

  ‘For the tape, the suspect flung herself on the floor, pretending to be a wolf. She is being returned to her chair.’

  ‘In battle I’m a bear,’ she shrieked, writhing as the constables picked her up. ‘I can break out of these chains with superhuman strength. You can’t keep me locked up. I’ll smash you and your cells to pieces. You can’t keep me here. The gods will strike you down with thunder and lightning.’

  She was raving, her eyes rolling wildly, her hands clawing at the air. Ian glanced sideways at Ted who was watching Sophie, mesmerised by her performance.

  ‘Do you think she really believes it?’ he muttered to Ian.

  Ian shook his head. It was difficult to know what to say. At least she had admitted the axe belonged to her.

  ‘So you are a fierce warrior,’ he resumed, when she had quietened down enough to be returned to her seat.

  ‘My prowess in battle is renowned. I am a glorious hero. My fame has spread. I am a legend in my own lifetime. Poets will still be singing about me a thousand years from now.’

  ‘A great warrior would never have been beaten in combat, and by a woman.’

  She bristled. ‘No one has ever beaten me in battle. No one.’

  ‘Naomi did.’

  ‘Who’s Naomi? Is that someone else I’m supposed to know? Because I don’t.’

  ‘That’s the name of the female police constable who came to your flat. The one who slapped you in handcuffs.’

  Sophie gave a cunning smile. ‘I know better than to fight with a volur.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘As soon as she took out her staff, I knew she could overpower me with one flick of her wrist. I’m not a fool. I’ll take on anyone in a fair fight – and win – but I’m no match for her.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Ted asked. ‘You must have been in with a chance. One on one. You might have disarmed her.’

  ‘With what? I’m a shape shifter, not a sorceress. I have no power against the magic of a volur.’

  Ted muttered something about a nutcase. Ian vaguely recalled Sophie telling him about women known as volurs who were sorceresses. They used a sort of magic wand. The Viking belief in magic made the volur powerful enough to control strong warriors. When Naomi had flicked open her truncheon, Sophie had submitted to her superior power, in the mistaken belief that Naomi was brandishing a magic wand.

  With the mystery of Sophie’s surrender resolved, Ian was curious to know what had triggered Sophie’s killing spree. He asked her about it directly.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she replied, reaching out to touch the handle of the axe again inside its plastic cover. ‘The gods sent me a sign when they placed a weapon in my hand.’ She looked up earnestly. ‘The gods must be obeyed.’

  Ian ended the interview, advising Sophie that they would continue in the morning. It was only a formality from now on. They had all the evidence they needed, backed up by her confession that she had used the axe to kill people. Her ignorance of the identity of her victims wasn’t important. They had more than enough to secure a conviction.

  He switched off the tape and leaned forward. ‘We’re going to work a different sort of magic for you,’ he said softly. ‘It’s a magic that will see you locked up for the rest of your crazy life.’

  Sophie laughed. ‘You’re no sorceress,’ she said, ‘and I know you’re not a shape changer. There’s no magic in you.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  Ian stood up and nodded to the uniformed constables at the door. ‘Take her away, and keep her under twenty-four-hour surveillance. She’s completely insane, crazy enough to try anything. We need to get a mental health assessment done as quickly as possible and, in the meantime, make sure she can’t do herself an injury.’

  Eileen asked about Naomi when she phoned to congratulate Ian on a satisfactory outcome. He wondered how she had heard about the dangerous situation Naomi had faced. He hoped it wouldn’t count against him, as the superior officer in Eileen’s absence.

  ‘There was never any problem, Ma’am,’ he assured Eileen. ‘Naomi’s an extremely competent officer.’

  He was minimising the danger Naomi had faced only partly to cover his own back. He was also protecting the constable from a reprimand for taking an unnecessary risk. Privately, Ian thought his colleague had had a lucky escape.

  68

  Ian had all his notes ready for typing and checking, but that could wait until the morning. The hard work that lay ahead was just a formality, although crucial if they were to secure a conviction. The uncertainty was over. After a day spent in an interview room with Sophie, he was mentally drained. The rest of the team were going for a drink to celebrate the arrest. Ian finished tidying up his desk, and went to join the others in the pub. He had nothing to rush home for. As soon as he had finished his reports, he would take a few days off and go to Kent. He had no idea what he was going to say to Bev. They had been together for so long, he couldn’t envisage life without her. He didn’t even want to think about it yet.

  The normally quiet pub was packed and rowdy. Many of the officers who had been drafted in from the surrounding area had already gone home, but there were enough left to fill the place. Ian struggled towards the bar where a harassed-looking landlord was pulling pints as quickly as he could. His lips were moving, but it was impossible to hear what he was saying. Ian found Ted and Naomi in the melee.

  ‘DCI’s at the bar,’ Ted shouted. ‘What are you having?’

  ‘A pint,’ Ian mouthed.

  Ted turned to an officer standing behind the detective chief inspector and called out something about a pint for Ian. A moment later, Eileen looked round and raised a hand in acknowledgement. George was with her. He also turned and grinned at Ian.

  ‘It’s mad in here,’ Ted yelled.

  Ian nodded. With a pint in his hand, he followed Ted to the side of the room, where there was a little more space. Naomi joined them. They didn’t attempt conversation. Ian gazed around at his colleagues, many of them single or divorced. P
erhaps it was inevitable that so many relationships failed. Bev had never been happy with what he did, but he would never give it up. The adrenaline rush of the chase was addictive, as was the satisfaction of achieving a result. He had dedicated his life to the service of justice, stopping the guilty and protecting the innocent. It was partly down to his efforts that a demented killer was behind bars, and no longer prowling the streets hunting for a victim. Four people were dead. There could have been more. Bev herself had been at risk, along with the rest of the public. Yet she refused to understand that he was protecting her as well as everyone else.

  Although he hadn’t wanted to go home to his empty house, he didn’t stay long at the pub. There were a few speeches, which no one could hear, and a lot of cheering and drinking. He left while the orgy of self-congratulation was in full swing. He didn’t feel like celebrating. Driving home, he realised he was hungry, but he couldn’t be bothered to stop for a takeaway. Somehow it wouldn’t be the same without first phoning Bev to ask if she wanted anything. He played the familiar conversation in his head as he drove. He would enquire if she was making dinner. She would want to know why he was asking, although they would both know that she knew what was in his mind. He sighed and pulled up outside the house, empty-handed.

  Indoors, he had to stop himself from calling out to her, or looking for her in the living room. It crossed his mind that she might have thought better of her decision, and he shouted her name with a sudden rush of hope. There was no answer. He flung himself into a chair and dropped his head in his hands. He always felt horribly deflated at the end of a case. For weeks all he had thought about was the axe murderer. He had spent every waking minute reading statements and searching for clues. He had dreamt about the victims at night, when he had been able to sleep. Now it was over and, in spite of his relief, there was a void in his life. He had nothing to occupy his mind now, except his failed marriage.