Blood Rites: A Detective Inspector Paul Snow thriller

by David Stuart Davies

  Barraclough reached into the back pocket of his jeans and extracted his wallet. ‘We said forty…’

  ‘It was fifty. I need fifty.’ There was such a desperate wail in her voice that it prompted Barraclough not to argue. ‘Have it your own way,’ he growled and, extracting the money from the wallet, cast the notes on the bed. The girl quickly scooped them up and stuffed them in her purse.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘now get your kit off.’

  The girl stood up and without embarrassment threw off her thin outer coat and then slipped the mini-dress over her head until she stood, head bowed, in her bra and knickers, her pale skin already dappled with goose pimples. Barraclough unbuckled his jeans and slipped them off. She could see from the bulge in his underpants that he already had an erection. He moved forward and pushed her gently down on to the bed. His rough hands were soon tugging at her knickers.

  ‘Careful,’ she said. ‘Don’t rip ‘em.’

  ‘Shut up,’ he said, yanking the knickers down her legs and flinging them across the room.

  In her grim profession, Gwen had experienced many men who had seen her not so much as a human being, not even a nameless sex object, but just as a piece of meat to be penetrated with as much force, and it would seem, as much anger as possible. Simon Barraclough was one of the worst of this breed. With his eyes bulging like a wild animal, he thrust himself into her with a kind of determined mechanical rhythm that lacked any shred of humanity or passion. It was more an act of brutal dominance. He was taking out his pent up frustration with life on her frail body. He was not indulging in an act of pleasure but one of punishment. For the girl it was both painful and demeaning, but she had grown used to both. In the time honoured tradition of the whore, she laid back and, rather than think of England, she allowed her thoughts to dwell on the fifty pounds waiting for her when this degrading ordeal was over. The fifty pounds and what it would buy her: a brief escape from this dunghill that was her life.

  As is the case with men like Barraclough, he was unable to sustain prolonged intercourse. His fury and vigour won over any sense of maintaining the act. It was concluded in less than two minutes. With the roar that a rampant bull would have been proud of, he climaxed and with a grunt, slipped sideways on the bed, panting gently, his brow dripping with sweat.

  Gwen lay still. She knew from experience that it was not her place to suggest that the transaction was over. She prayed that he wouldn’t attempt a second assault but she had to wait a few minutes in case he did. Eventually, he sat up and retrieved his underpants and jeans from the floor. She gave a silent sigh of relief. She waited until he had zipped up his pants before reaching for her dress.

  Suddenly there was a violent banging on the door. It thundered in the room.

  ‘What the fuck!’ exclaimed Barraclough. He made a move towards the door and he did so the noise stopped as suddenly as it began.

  Barraclough’s features clouded with puzzlement. He now seemed uncertain what to do.

  And then the noise came again: a rapid loud banging. The door shook with the force of it.

  This time Barraclough strode down the narrow passage, his hands clenched and his eyes blazing. ‘What the fuck,’ he snarled again and pulled open the door. Standing before him was a tall shadowy figure who took a step over the threshold.

  ‘What the…’ Barraclough began his mantra once more, but then his attention was captured by the sudden pain in his abdomen. His mouth gaped open in silent shock. It felt as if someone had set fire to his intestines. As he staggered backwards, he gazed down and saw the handle of the knife that had been thrust into his stomach. The dark figure thrust deeper and then grasping the handle dragged the blade upwards, tearing his flesh and slicing through his innards.

  Gwen had been concentrating on retrieving her knickers when she heard Barraclough emit a strangulated cry and as she glanced down the corridor she saw him slump to the floor. Standing over him was the dark figure of a man holding a knife. The blade flickered briefly in the dim light and she saw that it was stained with a dark substance. She clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle the whimper of shock which was about to emerge. With great alacrity, she dropped into a crouching position and dodged back out of the dark man’s line of sight. Gwen wasn’t quite sure what was happening or whether the man with the knife had seen her but she knew she was frightened and sensed great danger. She did not know whether Barraclough was dead or not, but it was clear that he had been attacked by the intruder. She scuttled to the corner of the room, sank to her knees down at the far side of the bed and held her breath. There was a muffled silence. In her frightened state, it felt as though time had stood still. And then she heard the door slam shut.

  Still she waited, shivering with dread, still not daring to move. Was the man now making his way down the corridor, his knife in his hand? Was he coming to kill her? This terrible though made her cry out and she bit her knuckle in an attempt to muffle the noise. Frozen by fear to the spot, she waited for whatever terrible fate awaited her.

  But nothing happened.

  There was no further noise and no one appeared around the corner from the passageway. Had he gone – or was he just waiting to pounce? After a long time, she got to her feet and like a timid child made her way towards the corridor and tentatively peered around the corner.

  There was no one there. No one, apart from Simon Barraclough who was lying, slumped sideways against the wall. He was not moving.

  ‘Oh, my God, my God,’ Gwen whispered, her whole body shaking, as she moved slowly down to corridor towards the prone shape.

  It did not take her long to realise that her customer of the evening was dead. The front of his body, around the abdomen, was running with blood, glistening like dark slime in the dim light. It had flowed through his clothing and was now dripping down onto the threadbare carpet. She retched at the sight and turned away, tears springing to her eyes. It was a nightmare. Was this real or were the drugs playing tricks with her brain? She stumbled back to the bed and curled up into a foetal position, sobbing uncontrollably.

  Not far away, out in a nearby darkened street, the murderer was moving swiftly towards his car, satisfied with the night’s events, feeling that he had, to use the phrase, killed two birds with one stone. He smiled at the concept. Yes, indeed, he had managed to muddy the waters for the police – or so he believed – and had continued his crusade most successfully.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  It was nearly midnight when Snow and Bob Fellows arrived at the large Victorian house situated on New North Road, just a mile from the centre of Huddersfield. It was a hive of police activity, with a couple of flashing patrol cars and a number of officers milling around the main entrance. Despite the late hour a small crowd of curious onlookers had gathered on the pavement on the opposite side of the road. Entering the building, Detective Sergeant Martyn Cripps greeted Snow with a laconic nod and led them up to Simon Barraclough’s bedsit.

  ‘There is a witness – of sorts. A girl.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes, a tart. She’d had sex with the victim just before the attack. He picked her up earlier in the evening.’

  ‘So she witnessed the murder.’

  ‘She’s a bit vague as to details. Don’t count on her for much. I reckon she’ll be about as useful as a chocolate teapot,’ said Cripps sourly.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘She’s a druggie and claims she didn’t see anything clearly – no doubt the pink rabbits and multi-coloured bubbles blurred her view. You know what these types are like. You can’t rely on anything they say. Their brain’s in cloud cuckoo land. She’s down at the station now.’

  ‘Just our luck,’ said Bob.

  Snow did not comment. They passed through a group of SOCOs in the corridor and reached the entrance of the bedsit. Chris McKinnon was standing over the body and grinned ghoulishly at their approach. ‘Not a pretty sight.’

  Snow had to agree as he gazed down at the crimson-s
tained creature lying in the hallway, the vicious wounds clearly visible through the torn clothing and dried blood. The stomach had been savagely ripped open, exposing some of the corpse’s innards. Snow grimaced and averted his gaze

  ‘In my humble opinion,’ McKinnon was saying, ‘this is your number three. Same method of attack as Sammy Tindall and Frank Sullivan. Sharp, serrated knife thrust into the abdomen, a full frontal attack, and then sliced upwards. Not terribly scientific but extremely effective.’

  Snow looked down once more at the mutilated corpse. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘That’s Simon Barraclough, bastard of this parish,’ announced Martyn Cripps, moving into the circle standing by the body. ‘Local bad boy. Just out of the nick. A ne’er do well if there ever was one. There’ll not be many who will mourn his passing’.

  ‘So what happened here?’ asked Bob Fellows, bending down to examine the body. ‘It looks like he answered the door and was stabbed for his pains?’

  ‘That’s how I read it,’ said McKinnon.

  ‘Just like Frank Sullivan,’ observed Snow

  ‘Indeed. There’s no sign of a struggle. It must have been swift and sudden.’ McKinnon mimed the action of the attack. ‘The poor bastard didn’t have a chance.’

  ‘Hardly a poor bastard,’ sneered Cripps.

  ‘So the killer stabbed him and just left,’ said Snow, thinking aloud.

  ‘Yes. Apparently the girl hid out of sight. Round the corner,’ said Cripps pointing the way.

  ‘Let me see.’

  Stepping carefully over the corpse, Snow moved down the corridor into the main area of the bed sit. He gazed around, making a mental note of the layout and then returned to the doorway.

  ‘Come on, Bob. I think we’re done here. Let’s see what this girl can tell us.’

  Gwen was sitting in a cell back at the police HQ, a blanket draped over her shoulders, staring down at the mug of hot milky coffee cradled in her hands.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Snow gently as he pulled up a chair and sat opposite her.

  ‘Like shit,’ she said sourly, not looking up.

  ‘You’ll come round in time.’

  She looked up at Snow and gave him a look of sneering disdain. What the hell did this smart-suited copper know about how she felt or anything else about her? He’d eased himself out of a cosy warm bed in a nice house to come down here and gawp at her: the druggie tart.

  Snow read all the implications in the gesture, but he persevered. ‘Look, I really need your help. It’s important that I build up a picture of the events that occurred this evening. Will you help me?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘In the end, not really. You could be awkward, I suppose, but that’s likely to do you more harm than good. We just want to know what happened. You’re not in any trouble here, but you are a very important person – a witness to a violent crime. You could help us catch the person who did it.’

  Gwen looked up and was surprised at the softness of his tone and the copper’s kind expression. ‘Go on, then,’ she said at length. ‘Try me. What do you want to know?’

  ‘How well did you know Simon Barraclough?’

  She laughed. It was guttural mirthless laugh filled with irony and bitterness. ‘I didn’t know him at all. He was a client. A punter. He paid me to be with him. That’s the only fucking reason I was with the slime ball. I needed some cash.’

  ‘He picked you up?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. In the Shoehorn.’

  Snow nodded. He knew it, a cellar bar on the main street in town. It was well known as a place where you could easily pick up a prostitute or buy certain substances.

  ‘You’d not met him before?’

  Gwen shook her head. ‘No. If I had I’d not have gone with him. He was a bloody ignorant animal. Most of the blokes I go with at least attempt some kind of decent behaviour, but he treated me like dirt’.

  ‘What happened when you got back to his bedsit?’

  ‘Well, what do you think happened? We played snakes and ladders?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Gwen shrugged. ‘Yeah, well… We did the business and just as we were getting dressed there was this racket at the door. Someone was hammering away. This Simon goes to answer it and then everything went quiet for a bit and then I hears a kind of cry and a weird sound as though someone is gargling. Crazy. I was really scared by now and I just peered round the corner of the room down the passage and see… well, I see Simon on the floor and this bloke standing over him with a knife.’

  ‘What did he look like – ‘this bloke’?’

  ‘I dunno. The light was behind him. He was all in shadow. He was like a shadow himself, a moving shadow’. She giggled erratically.

  Snow waited for her to calm down before he spoke further. ‘Come on, think, Gwen. There must be something you can tell me about his appearance. Was he tall or short, fat or thin?’

  The girl pursed her lips and thought for a moment. ‘Well, he looked tall and on the thin side. I’d say his hair was greyish. The light created a kind of halo and it looked fluffy and grey.’

  ‘What about his face?’

  ‘Nah. I couldn’t see nothin’. As I said, it was all in shadow. Just a blank, black face.’

  ‘Did you hear his voice?’

  ‘No. I don’t think he spoke.’

  ‘What about his clothes?’

  ‘Some sort of long mac or overcoat. Yeah, overcoat. I remember his shoulders. They were tweedy-like.’

  Snow nodded. ‘You’re doing well. Now do think hard. Is there anything else you can tell me about his appearance? Anything at all.’

  Gwen pretended to think and then shook her head. ‘No, that’s it. I was too scared to stay looking. I just glimpsed what was happening and got out of the way. I didn’t want him to see me. I reckon he didn’t know I was there or else I wouldn’t be talking to you now.’ She paused a moment, her brow softly folding into a frown. ‘There was one thing though. It was kind of strange.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Well, he’d killed Simon and that. Stabbed him to death hadn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, he seemed to be calm about it. He didn’t seem angry or agitated. Not violent, like. He just did it and left.’

  Some thirty minutes later, Snow was sipping a strong black coffee at his desk in his office reading the file on Simon Barraclough when Bob Fellows came in. ‘I’ve taken a statement from the girl. Sparky little thing, she is. Is it OK if we let her go for the time being?’ he said wearily.

  Snow nodded. ‘Yes. She’s told us all she knows, which is precious little.’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘Make sure we have full details of where she’s staying. We need to keep her on our radar.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s in any danger,’ continued Snow. ‘It’s fairly clear our man didn’t see her, but we must keep her name out of the papers just in case.’

  ‘Sure.’ Fellows perched on the edge of the desk. ‘It doesn’t get any clearer, does it?’

  ‘No it doesn’t.’ Snow ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. ‘There’s no thread which links these murders. Well, no visible thread at least. But there must be one. There must. I’m convinced there is a purpose behind the killings. They are not random. The victims are connected in some way and have been picked out for a reason.’

  ‘But what reason?’

  ‘When we know that…’ Snow left the sentence dangling and took a long slug of hot coffee.

  Fellows glanced at his watch. ‘Blimey, it’s nearly three o’clock. It’s hardly worth going home.’

  ‘Nah, Bob, release the girl and then you get off. I reckon you’ve earned a bit of a lie in. We don’t want that cold rearing its snotty head again, do we?’

  Fellows needed no further prompting. He hopped off the desk and headed for the door. ‘Never look a gift horse…’ were his parting words.

  Snow got up and walked to t
he window and gazed down at the empty street but his mind was focused on the case and in particular the unfathomable link that connected the three victims. It appeared that they didn’t know each other, they came from different backgrounds and locations. And yet… And yet they must have something in common – however tenuous, however fragile. Something that gave a motive for murder. As he pondered this conundrum, one of the street lights below flickered erratically and then suddenly went out. As he stared at the defunct lamp something clicked in his brain. The bright light had faded, shrouding that particular patch of road in darkness, and this had given him the germ of an idea. It was crazy, off the wall, metaphorical – but it was something to cling on to. He rushed to his desk and began to scribble down a list of facts. The faster he wrote, the broader his smile grew.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Despite the hectic and demanding nature of her job, especially at this time of year with Christmas fast approaching, Matilda was relieved when she drove through the school gates and manoeuvred her car through the throng of pupils to her reserved parking space. Whatever the day threw at her she knew she had the stamina, knowledge and wherewithal to be able to cope. This was her domain and she felt safe and secure here. Not like at home. It was no longer the haven it had once been. It was no longer her space. Roger was there.

  After their confrontation the other evening there had been a kind of awkward truce between the two of them. Since then her brother had behaved well, been quiet, reasonably tidy and deferential; but somehow this unnatural behaviour was strangely intimidating. It created its own suspenseful atmosphere, making Matilda all the more nervous and apprehensive. It was like waiting for a bomb to go off. And she knew, knew of old, that something would go dramatically awry before long. She hated being in the house, in her own home, and she hated being around Roger. She prayed that he would stick to his word and be gone within a fortnight. Then she would try and claim her old life back.