Indeed, as the article reported, there had been an outcry at the time Barraclough was convicted. It had seemed to many that it was a ludicrously light sentence for the crime. He had broken into the home of an eighty-five year old woman, a Mrs Ivy Spencer, terrorised her and stolen cash and ornaments. Within hours of the robbery, Mrs Spencer had collapsed. She died the following day of a heart attack brought on by the trauma of the robbery. Mrs Spencer’s daughter claimed that Barraclough had effectively murdered her mother and this was the main thrust of the case for the prosecution. However, Barraclough had no previous convictions and appeared convincingly contrite and emotionally upset in the witness box that the judge apparently fell for his bluster and play acting. And so he was given just a three years custodial sentence and was out in two. Out and grinning. It was not right, thought the man staring at the newspaper article. Indeed it was very wrong. It was a wrong he intended to correct. He ran his forefinger over the newspaper, circling the face of Simon Barraclough and drawing a sharp line across his neck. That smile, he thought, that demon smile, would soon become a rictus death grin.
Matilda Shawcross pulled into her driveway and brought her car to a halt. She saw all the lights blazing in her house and felt the knot tighten in her stomach. She had always regarded her home as a kind of womb-like haven, a place where she could escape the stress and pressures of her job. This was her domain where she could do what she liked and there were no rules only her own wishes and desires. Running a school was rewarding and sometimes exciting and fulfilling but it certainly was not easy. The demands made upon a head teacher were growing by the day and more and more she needed the solace, privacy and comfort that her home offered. She could close the door on that part of her life and become herself, become Matilda instead of Miss Shawcross for a time at least.
But not now.
With the arrival of Roger back in her life and in her home, there were other pressures and concerns to nag at her. Her personal space had been invaded in such a casual, brutish way and she had been surprised how much it had affected her. Roger had been there less than a week and yet already her tidy, well-ordered house was in a state of disarray. There was mess everywhere. It seemed that he was incapable of closing a drawer, making a cup of coffee without leaving some kind of detritus, filling ashtrays without emptying them and possessed a pathological inability to turn any light off. And then there was his physical presence. He seemed to be everywhere: she had no private spaces left.
However, what was worse, and what seemed to be preying in her mind all her waking hours, was how long this was going to last. Despite his words of assurance he appeared to have done nothing to seek alternative accommodation or find himself employment. He seemed content to hang around the house most of the day, watching television and drinking gin and then disappearing for some time in the evening, returning well after midnight. My God, it was like living with an errant teenager. She knew that they would have to have that talk soon. That talk that she had scripted in her head but had not as yet mustered up sufficient courage to instigate. She wanted her house back and her life. And she wanted him gone. The longer he stayed the longer the situation became the status quo – and that was not going to happen.
She slammed the car door, gritted her teeth as she saw all the windows ablaze. As she approached her own front door with apprehension a sudden spark of anger ignited within her. Why on earth should she feel this way about entering her own house? This was ridiculous. However, as she turned the handle of the door she couldn’t help wishing that she had called in at some bar on the way home for a drink to buoy up her courage. She was used to confrontation at work but not in her personal life – not since her divorce at least.
She entered the hall and heard music playing in the sitting room. Dropping her briefcase down and hanging up her coat she made her way there. A young man who she had never seen before was sitting in a relaxed pose on the sofa, smoking a cigarette. He raised his head casually as she entered and smiled.
‘Oh, hi,’ he said dreamily. He was good looking with an affected casualness of dress. He wore a light coloured grey suit with a collar and tie, but the knot was slack and the top button of the shirt was unfastened. His blonde hair flopped about his face in a Byronic fashion. He was completely unfazed by her appearance in the room.
‘And who are you?’ Matilda asked, only just managing to keep her fury in check.
‘That’s Mark.’ It was Roger who replied. He appeared from the kitchen carrying a drink, the ice cubes clinking noisily in the glass. ‘He was just going, weren’t you, Mark?’
The young man turned to look at Roger, an expression of surprise on his face. ‘Er, yes,’ he said at length. ‘I guess I was.’ He rose awkwardly from the sofa and adjusted his tie.
‘You can see yourself out, can’t you, Mark?’ Roger said pointedly, before taking a sip from the glass.
Mark opened his mouth as though he was about to say something but then thought better of it. Instead he nodded mutely and made his way swiftly towards the door, averting his gaze from Matilda. A few seconds later there was the sound of the front door opening and closing.
Roger shrugged and gave his sister a weary smile. ‘Old habits…’ he said before sipping his gin and tonic.
Later that night, Matilda lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. She was unable to sleep: her body was tense and her mind racing with thoughts. How could one man’s return into her life cause her so much anguish? Within a remarkably short time Roger had disturbed the comparatively quiet waters of her life. But then he had always been trouble. He was three years younger than her and when he had been a very young child she had enjoyed mothering him, playing the older, wiser sibling and he had responded to her care and affection. She had been a junior school teacher even in those days. It had been a happy relationship, but when he had reached puberty, his character changed and darkened. He sought dominance and this came through mischief and any activity that challenged the norm. He was forever getting into trouble at school and his first brush with the law came when he was just fourteen. He had threatened a master at school with a knife and the police had been called in. This action, thought Matilda, was typical of Roger: it was violent, aggressive and foolish. He had given no thought to the upset his behaviour would cause to either himself or his family. He never did. He either never considered the consequences of his actions or he ignored them.
Matilda’s father had died when Roger was eleven and so there was no strong male influence in the house to help shape and control this difficult teenager who seemed determined to live a life off the rails. Matilda’s mother was a gentle soul and was a not able to rein in the extravagant and delinquent behaviour of her son. Matilda saw that she gradually gave up trying. And then, just after he turned sixteen, Roger came to the conclusion that he was gay. Far from confusing or upsetting him, he welcomed this revelation with open arms. It further established his difference from the main stream of society which pleased him greatly. Convention was not for him.
His school career had been fairly horrendous but he was talented in English and showed much promise as a writer. On leaving school, he eventually managed to get a job on a local paper down south. He packed his bags and disappeared from the lives of Matilda and her mother. They only had the odd letter and phone call, and one Christmas, a visit from Roger. It had been a bleak festive occasion but Roger assured them that he was working his way up the journalistic ladder and was sure that before he was twenty five he would have a job on a London paper or magazine. But his wayward sex life had led him into the world of drugs. From being a user he had progressed into drug dealing which eventually landed him in gaol with a stiff five year sentence. By this time their mother had died and when Matilda had gone to see him in gaol, he had refused to see her. He later wrote to her stating that he did not want to be reminded of his previous life and she must not feel any obligations to visit him. And so, in effect the link was broken. It did not affect Matilda too much. In essence, the rift had occurred man
y years before and now she was relieved to be cut adrift from such a disruptive force. But blood will out, she supposed, and she did find herself from time to time wondering how Roger was. But gradually these thoughts had faded. She had made a pleasant but demanding life for herself without any reference to her renegade brother. She never mentioned him to anyone. She had edited him out of her life.
Until now.
Strong in the knowledge that sleep was not an option for the time being, she sat up in bed, pulling the pillows up behind her back to support her in a sitting position and took a sip of water from the glass on her bedside cabinet. She thought back to the previous evening. They had had the talk that she planned. After a fashion.
What really angered and frustrated Matilda was that Roger seemed oblivious of his faults. He reacted to her complaints and concerns with an easy grin and a gentle shrug of the shoulders. It was his standard reaction to censure. She remembered those movements from his youth, the curl of the lips, the air of bewilderment registered in those light blue eyes. Part of it, she knew was an act, but also part of it was Roger’s innate inability to take responsibility for his own actions. He just didn’t care.
After she had exhausted her ire, he apologised if he had upset her and assured her that he would move out ‘within the fortnight’. He also promised that he would not bring any more of his boyfriends around to the house again. And then he had leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Sorry for being a nuisance, Sis. Forgive me. I’m still finding my feet after being… away for some time.’
She knew it was a performance but she was grateful that hadn’t exploded with indignation, which was another of his traits. For the moment she had to take him at his word. What else could she do? He was, after all, her brother.
Matilda took another sip of water and sighed.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
The unleashed Fox Terrier raced towards Paul Snow, its whole body electrified with excitement. It made to jump up at him, but Snow leaned forward and held out both hands to gently ward off the dog. He didn’t want the creature’s muddy paws staining his cord jeans.
‘Woody, get down,’ came the cry from one of the dog’s owners, an anoraked couple in their fifties, who were hurrying down the path towards him. The man looked like a bank manager and the woman one of those Conservative ladies who hold lunches at home to raise money for the starving in Africa. The man grabbed the dog with both hands and pulled him away from Paul and snapped on his lead. ‘Sorry about that. He’s easily excited,’ he said smoothly.
Paul smiled. ‘That’s OK. He certainly is a lively fellow isn’t he?’
‘You wouldn’t think he was nearly nine years old, would you?’
Paul increased his smile. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’
‘Well, come on old chap, let’s be off,’ said the man, addressing the dog. With an exchange of amiable nods the couple moved on.
It was the first human interaction he’d had in nearly twenty four hours. It was rare for Paul to have a full weekend off from his duties and, unlike most people, he did not really relish them. With no family or close network of friends, he tended to spend them alone. Recently his relationship with Matilda had changed all that. They usually spent at least one of the two days together: a walk, a pub lunch, a visit to a museum, art gallery and the occasional movie. He had experienced the nearest he had ever come to a sort of normal domestic existence in his grown up life. But now that was put on hold. Maybe it was over for ever. That thought made him sad. He still had great difficulty thinking of Matilda in a full romantic way, but he was glad of her company and was very fond of her. It also delighted him to know that she was fond of him too. Maybe that notion should be phrased in the past tense now.
He had been tempted to ring her on the Saturday but he had decided not to. She had said that she would get in touch with him when she was ready and he had to stick by that. He didn’t want aggravate the situation further by appearing too inquisitive or needy. As a detective, he was frustrated and disappointed at not being able to come up with some theory or reason why she should be acting like this and, more pertinently, who that man was who had answered her phone. He would simply have to employ that stoical patience which was his stock in trade as a professional policeman.
Sunday had dawned bright and crisp and he decided he needed fresh air and a change of scene. He had driven over to Bolton Abbey and taken the path over by the Strid. It was still too early for many walkers and he’d had the place to himself apart from a few red-faced determined joggers, until he had encountered Woody, the over enthusiastic terrier, and his owners. But they, too soon disappeared from the landscape and he was alone once more. This thought struck him philosophically. He did lead a solitary life. It wasn’t just his sexuality and his desire to contain that and keep it secret that led him down this particular avenue. It was part of his nature, too. He was aware that he was most comfortable, more himself, when he was on his own. He was conscious that in company, whether with colleagues or others, even including Matilda, there was always an element of performance in his behaviour. ‘Putting on a show’ as his mother would have said. There was little he could do about it now. He lacked the talent to be simply sociable. That gene was missing from his makeup and so he mainly settled for his own company. In his mid-thirties it had become his way of life. As he mulled these thoughts over, he came to accept that it would probably be best if his relationship with Matilda faltered and came to an end. At one point, he suspected that she was hoping for a long term thing, maybe even marriage. But that would be unfair on her… well, on both of them. He was very doubtful that he could commit fully, in the emotional sense, to such an arrangement and as such, it would be a dark betrayal to Matilda who deserved better.
This thought lay heavily on his mind as he broke through the shady wooded section of the walk and made his way down the path towards the river, its waters glinting brightly in the late autumn sunshine. He passed a quartet of cheery walkers who all nodded at him and gave the customary countryside greeting of ‘Morning’ and strangely this civilised custom raised his spirits. He spied the Cavendish Pavilion café further down on the other side of the river with the smoke rising lazily from its chimney and the thought of a cup of coffee and a flapjack gave him a shiver of pleasure. He increased his pace in anticipation of the treat. He determined that, for the time being, he would cast all serious and muddled thoughts aside. He had come out to unwind a little and that would not happen if he mulled over matters that concerned either his private or professional life. Reality was waiting in the wings and would intrude all too soon.
He gazed up at the pale blue sky, flecked with a few ragged clouds and for some reason he smiled and broke into a jog. He could almost taste that flapjack already.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
The bedsit that the authorities had found for Simon Barraclough was basic in the extreme. ‘If I had a fuckin’ cat,’ he had moaned to a mate, ‘I wouldn’t be able to swing the bastard round.’ At first he had vowed to move out of this shithole as soon as he could, but as he melded back into civilian life after two years of being banged up – one with easy-going mates, cheap beer and real street-walking freedom - the restrictions of his new living quarters did not seem so important. After all they were better than his cell and he didn’t have to share his space with a smelly halfwit or piss into a bucket.
His complaints to his probation officer about the bedsit faded, and he spent most of his energy finding excuses not to go for job interviews. He was happy with the dole for the time being. It brought him sufficient cash to allow him to get rat-arsed when he wanted and the freedom to laze around in bed all day if he wished. Should he start to fall short of cash he could always go on the thieving again.
What he really wanted now was a girlfriend. Correction. What he really wanted now was a girl he could shag. Several years of satisfying himself had built up his appetite for the real thing. He had a strong aversion to paying for sex. That was a desper
ate measure but needs must sometimes.
She was young and no doubt a druggie. She could be barely out of her teens but with all that make-up plastered all over her face it was difficult to tell. She was slim though. He liked them like that: lean and childlike. He couldn’t understand these men who lusted after big tits and fat arses. No, this one, this Gwen, that’s what she called herself, would do. He picked her up in The Shoehorn bar in town. It was easy peasy. It was clear she was desperate for cash and not too fussy. She was already groggy with drugs when he got her back to his place. He just hoped that she wasn’t going to pass out on him in the heat of the action.
He manoeuvred her down the narrow passage which led from the door to the space where he lived. It was an untidy shambles with the main items of furniture being a dead sofa and a narrow bed.
‘You gotta drink,’ she said, sitting down on the bed. ‘My mouth’s really dry.’
‘What d’you think this is? A fuckin’ cocktail bar?’ Despite his annoyance, he grinned at his own allusion.
The girl pulled a face. ‘You’re a charmer, aren’t you?’
‘Listen, darlin’, I’m paying you for a shag not to play house. So get your kit off.’
The girl’s body stiffened and her features darkened. She half rose from the bed. She had good mind to leave this creep now. And then the thought of stepping out into the cold again and trawling the streets for business made her pause and with some reluctance she sat back down on the bed. ‘Well, I’d like to see the colour of your money before we start.’
Blood Rites: A Detective Inspector Paul Snow thriller Page 9
