Blood Rites: A Detective Inspector Paul Snow thriller

by David Stuart Davies

  ‘Great,’ came the instant reply. ‘I was going to tell you later but since you asked… I went to see a place today: a little flat.’

  ‘And…’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t suitable. It was a bit poky and there were certain things that needed doing to it. DIY is not my territory. But the estate agent who showed me round said he’d got a more suitable property on his books and I’m going to see it tomorrow.’

  ‘Where is it, this other flat?’ asked Paul

  There was a moment’s hesitation before Roger replied. ‘Do you know I can’t remember. Not far from the centre of town.’

  ‘Which estate agent?’ Matilda’s voice was even with just a trace of ice.

  ‘Something and something. A pair of them. Nice offices on the high street.’

  ‘Well,’ said Paul affably, ‘I hope this place you see tomorrow will be suitable. I am sure Matilda will be glad to have her old place back to herself.’

  Roger’s eyes narrowed and his features darkened for a moment and then the sun came out once more and beamed brightly. ‘I understand. Never did relish the role of a gooseberry.’

  Silence fell like a shroud upon the proceedings. Roger rose noisily, collecting up the dessert plates. ‘Coffee, coffee, coffee. Be with you in a tick,’ he cried before sweeping from the room.

  ‘I suppose we should have expected that,’ said Snow once they were alone again.

  Matilda nodded. ‘I suppose so. I’m sorry, Paul.’

  ‘Nonsense. No harm done – in fact possibly the reverse. I suspect he’s never been near a flat today, but now he knows the situation, that I’m on the scene…

  ‘… and a policeman.’

  ‘…yes, I’m sure he’ll start searching.’

  ‘I hope you are right.’

  When Roger returned with the coffee, he also brought a brandy bottle with him. ‘I hope I could persuade out guest to take a little snifter with me. I know Mat dislikes the stuff.’

  Snow who had declined wine with the meal because he was driving was tempted by the brandy – it was a good label – and agreed.

  ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me,’ said Matilda, ‘I’ll go and powder my nose.’

  With Matilda out of the room, Roger’s whole body relaxed, his shoulders drooped and he slumped lazily back in his chair. He had consumed a large quantity of wine with the meal but had maintained an appearance of sobriety until this moment. Paul reckoned he had already been at the brandy in the kitchen, especially after the mini-interrogation regarding the flats. Roger took a sip of brandy, his head moving gently from side to side and he sighed loudly. ‘Great stuff. You miss this in the nick.’

  Snow nodded.

  ‘So, how long have you known Mat?’

  ‘A few months, maybe four.’

  ‘Lovely girl.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You serious about her?’

  Snow laughed out loud. ‘Next you’ll be asking me about my career prospects and enquiring if my intentions are honourable.’

  Roger saw the joke and chuckled. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to… I am sure you are a nice man, Paul.’

  ‘I try to be.’

  Roger’s hand moved across the table and touched Snow’s. ‘I’m sure you are. A lovely man.’

  Snow felt an uncomfortable tingle as Roger’s warm palm pressed down on his. He did not remove his hand. The two men gazed at each other in the fierce silence. Snow felt his mouth go dry as a strange but familiar sensation swept through his body.

  Later, as he drove home, Paul Snow tried to blank from his memory all the events of that evening.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  Snow was at his desk early the next morning sifting through the various witness statements in a desperate and, he tried not to admit to himself, a rather futile attempt to discern if he’d missed anything, any small crumb that could give him a clue, help provide him with a lead in this totally baffling murder case.

  The door of his office opened and Chief Superintendent Clayborough slipped in noiselessly.

  ‘Morning, Paul.’ The greeting was casual enough but the posture was stiff and intimidating, as Paul knew it was meant to be. He knew his boss of old.

  ‘Sir,’ said Snow, annoyed with himself for not being able to keep the note of apprehension out of his voice.

  ‘Just wanted a word.’

  Snow could guess what that word was.

  ‘This case of yours. Any progress?’

  Snow gave a slight grimace and shook his head. There was no point bullshitting this old hand. ‘Not really, sir. Still in the dark, I’m afraid. There doesn’t seem to be a pattern or any motive. There’s no connections between the victims except…’

  ‘Clayborough raised an eyebrow. ‘Except…’

  ‘They’ve all done bad things.’

  ‘Bad things.’ Clayborough sneered at vagueness of this phrase. ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

  ‘Well, Tindall, the first victim, was guilty of beating his wife. The second, Sullivan, was having sex with his daughter. She was pregnant by him.’

  ‘I see.’ Clayborough seemed unimpressed. ‘And the third?’

  ‘Simon Barraclough was a ne’er do well. He’d served a term in gaol and was … just a wastrel.’

  ‘Is that it? That’s your linkage.’

  Snow hesitated a moment before nodding. It was the first time he had actually verbalised this idea and he knew how lame it sounded. From the expression on Clayborough’s face it was clear that he thought so, too.

  ‘Using that theory, your killer could take his pick of half of Yorkshire’. He sighed heavily before continuing. ‘Look, Paul, we have three bloody murders on our hands and no fucking progress is being made. You know what the press are saying: incompetent police bastards etc. The killer is laughing up his sleeve at us and we’re expecting another body to be dumped on our doorstep any minute now. And all you’ve got for me is the idea that the victims have done ‘bad things’. Christ almighty! It’s time you pulled your bloody finger out, lad. We’ve got to nail this son of a bitch and soon. Is that understood?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ came the terse reply. Snow could have said more, much more but it would have been pointless and regarded as insubordination. He understood Clayborough’s frustration. God, he felt it himself in spades but you cannot make something out of nothing. And as far as he could see things at the moment, he had nothing.

  ‘I expect progress… soon.’ Clayborough gave his parting shot before disappearing as swiftly and as silently as he had arrived.

  Snow closed his eyes, pursed his lips and swore.

  The day wore on wearily. In the afternoon, Snow paid another visit to Mrs Tindall to see if he could extract any more information from her, pick up any ideas or notions why anyone would want to kill her husband. He thought of it as a futile excursion and it was. It was interesting, however, to observe the change in the woman and the house. She was dressed in bright clothes, probably new, with her hair tidy and shining. She even wore a little make up. The sitting room had been rearranged and was clean and tidy with a picture of Jesus hanging over the mantelpiece. She saw Snow take note of this and smiled.

  ‘I’ve started going back to church again,’ she said, smiling. ‘I was brought up a Catholic, as was Samuel, but he lapsed, didn’t like going to the church and didn’t like me going either.’ Her grin broadened. ‘But now I’m back in the fold and it’s helped to make a new woman of me. I am so much happier. Father Vincent has been so very kind to me. I feel part of a family again.’

  Snow said that he was pleased for her, noting silently that the death of her husband was not only a welcome release for her but a kind of rebirth. For her his murder had been a good thing.

  He took this thought back to town and to the County where he sat in the snug hunched over a solitary pint. He felt very low. It seemed to him that life was not only kicking him in the shins but in other parts of his anatomy as well. Perhaps it was time for him to hand over his ba
dge like a worn out Sherriff in a B movie and ride out of town. He allowed himself a brief bleak smile at the concept.

  ‘I thought I’d find you in here.’

  It was Bob Fellows. He carried a pint in his hand and sat beside Snow. ‘Any news? Any good news?’

  ‘Nope. No news, good or bad. We have flat-lined in this case. It seems we are in the hands of the killer, just waiting for him to strike again.’

  Bob took a large gulp of beer and wiped the froth from his lips. ‘That will never do,’ he said with mock cheerfulness. ‘Cheer up, sir. We’ll get a break soon.’

  ‘And pigs might fly.’

  ‘With modern technology, who knows? Anyway, I almost forgot why I am here. Someone left a message for you at the desk this afternoon.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Don’t know. A bloke. He left this.’ Bob held up an eggshell blue envelope with Snow’s name on it and the words ‘PERSONAL & PRIVATE’ printed in the top left hand corner. ‘Who knows, this could be our break.’

  Snow took the envelope without comment, broke the seal and extracted a single sheet of matching notepaper which contained a handwritten message. He read it and then slipped it back in the envelope and put that in his inside pocket. ‘Nothing to do with the case, Bob. As it said: personal and private.’

  Bob looked surprised at the curt response and took another gulp of beer to cover his dismay at Snow’s brusqueness. Don’t shoot the messenger, mate, he thought.

  Without another word, Snow rose and pushed his glass of beer towards Bob. ‘You can finish that if you want. I have to go.’

  Before Bob could respond, Snow had gone.

  ‘Blimey, what’s got into him,’ Bob muttered to himself and then pulled Snow’s half full glass nearer to his. ‘Still, waste not want not.’

  When Snow got to his car in the parking lot at HQ, he sat inside and read the note again. The handwriting was bold, elegant and delivered with a flourish: ‘Hi Paul, please meet me in the bar of the George Hotel this evening at six. I gather it’s one of your regular watering holes. It is most important. Please don’t let me down. Many thanks, Roger.’

  Snow stared at the note for some time, the words blurring after a time while his mind considered the various implications of the message. Initially he wondered whether he should go, but he knew that he had to. Apart from anything else, his policeman’s curiosity was aroused. Had the fool done something outrageous and was about to confess to him? If he had harmed or caused distress to Matilda… He found his body tensing at the thought.

  No, he had to go. He glanced at his watch. It was just after five. He’d drive along town, park in the square and wait until the appointed time.

  Just after six o’clock he entered the George Hotel. As he made his way through the foyer to the bar, he was well aware of the strange ironical coincidence that he had been here the previous night around the same time to meet Matilda and now here he was to rendezvous with her brother. The bar was just as sepulchral and empty as it had been the previous evening, empty that is except for a sleek-suited individual sitting by the door. It was Roger.

  He rose as Snow entered. ‘So glad you could make it,’ he said in cheery greeting, his voice heavy with drink. ‘I didn’t know if you’d be arresting a drugs baron or something. Let me get you a drink.’

  ‘I’m OK,’ replied Snow flatly.

  ‘Oh, come on, I’ve dragged you here, the least I can do is buy you a drink. Wine, beer?’

  Snow shook his head. ‘I’m fine. Now, what is this all about?’

  ‘Well, at least sit down so I can tell you.’

  Reluctantly Snow did as he was asked.

  ‘That’s better. First of all, I just wanted to put things straight between us. I really got the impression last night that you don’t approve of me.’ He flapped his hands in the air. ‘Of course, I can understand that. I know I’m the bad penny turning up unexpectedly, inconveniently – but I don’t mean to be.’ He leaned forward and placed his hand on Snow’s shoulder. ‘Honest.’

  ‘It would be good if you came to the point.’

  ‘Sure.’ Roger leaned back and took a sip of wine. ‘You’ll be pleased to know I’ve got me a place. A little bijou flatette. Rented, of course. Can’t afford to think of buying at the moment.’ He grinned broadly. ‘You knew I was telling porkies last night about estate agents didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Roger laughed. ‘Well, you are a detective after all.’

  Despite himself, Snow smiled. There was something strangely charismatic and endearing about this man. Oh, he was in no doubt that Roger was a complete shit, what the Americans called a shyster, and that he was not to be trusted an inch, but he had a winning warmth and charming manner that coated the sham and the slick, paper thin pretentions with a kind of glamour that was both disarming and attractive.

  ‘So, I have my own little den. Furnished and ready for occupancy. I intend to move in tomorrow and Matilda will be free of me.’

  Not exactly, thought Snow. He might no longer be sharing a house with her but he was not far away, lurking in the shadows of her life. Still, if he was telling the truth and had in fact rented a place of his own, that was a good thing, a move in the right direction, and it certainly would be a great relief for Matilda.

  ‘Whereabouts is this flat?’ asked Snow, realising that he was sounding like a policeman interrogating a suspect.

  ‘It’s a newish block at Chesil Bank, up Lindley way. I’d like to show it to you. See if you think I’ve done the right thing.’

  ‘Show it to me?’

  ‘Yes. Before Matilda sees it. That is if she’ll visit me. I’m not used to taking on these kind of commitments recently. A few years in jug makes you more than a bit rusty coping with normal, everyday things like… well, like renting a flat. I’d like to know if you think I’ve done the right thing. Get your opinion.’

  Snow’s expression suggested that he was baffled by this request. He was baffled but suspicious, too. Nevertheless, he reasoned, it would be good to affirm that Roger had indeed taken on a flat and was ready to move out.

  Roger withdrew a set of keys from his pocket and dangled them before Snow.

  ‘Number three, Chesil Court. Come and have a gander, Paul.’

  Snow looked at his watch. ‘Very well, but let’s make it quick.’

  Roger quickly drained his glass. ‘Good man. Taxi or your car, I’m afraid. No wheels at present.’

  ‘My car.’

  Chesil Court was a three story rabbit hutch which had been built in the late sixties. It was a featureless utilitarian structure. There was an odour in the air, a mixture of damp, sweat and something else that assailed the nostrils as they entered the chilly foyer. Snow reasoned that only a desperate soul would want to live here.

  Roger was still giving his upbeat performance. ‘I’m afraid the lift is out of order at the moment, but I’m only on the second floor.’ He took Snow’s arm and guided him to the stone steps. The air was even more pungent here.

  They came to a flat brown door with the number three in gold letters on it.

  So it did exist, thought Snow. The man really was making an effort.

  It was a poky little place with a small kitchen, a sitting room, bathroom and bedroom. The previous tenant had a penchant for flowered wallpaper, which dominated the sitting room and bedroom.

  ‘Oh, I know,’ said Roger with a flourish waving an arm extravagantly, ‘that wallpaper. Ugh. As dear Oscar said, either that wallpaper goes or I do.’ He laughed merrily. ‘So what do you think of the old homestead. Kind of quaint, isn’t it?’

  Quaint was not the word that Snow had in mind.

  ‘Well, I think you can guess what I think,’ he said simply, ‘but it will do as a stop gap measure, I’m sure, until you can get back on your feet again.’

  ‘You’re dead right. You are a clever cookie, Paul. Stop gap measure, indeed. Come on here and sit down here beside me.’ Roger beckoned to Snow, and patted the bed.
>
  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘Oh, I know you’re OK. You’re more than OK. In my eyes you are a pretty boy. A pretty, pretty boy. If you know what I mean.’

  Snow said nothing but was unhappy about this sudden change in the conversation.

  ‘You see, what I mean to say is not that you are not exactly pretty,’ continued Roger. ‘That would be silly. What I really mean is that I find you attractive. The cool exterior with that thin pale face, tense lips and those oh so hungry eyes. I don’t know what they are hungry for… or perhaps I do. I have an inbuilt radar, you see. It comes as part of the equipment. Well, it does in my case. A gay radar and when I look at you, the needle is throbbing. Whizzing across the dial it is. The minute you walked into Mat’s house last night, I sensed it. That louche way of walking, those gentle hand movements, that sensitive face which constantly radiates a vast array of changing emotions – as it is doing now.’

  Snow shifted uneasily. ‘I don’t know what game you are playing, but I suggest you abandon it now.’

  ‘Oh, Pauley, don’t… don’t be petulant. It’s you who’s playing the game. Remember what the bard said? ‘To thine own self be true’…’

  Roger rose from the bed and moved towards Snow, who instinctively took a step back. Roger beamed. ‘I can’t believe you are frightened of me. Really! Or is it yourself you are frightened of, eh? Frightened to let the true Pauley out of the closet.’ With a sudden, swift movement, Roger grabbed Snow by the arms, pulling him forward and then he kissed him full on the lips.

  With a snarl, Snow pushed Roger away and punched him hard on the chin. He fell backwards on to the bed, where he lay still for a few seconds before his body began to shake as though it was caught in some uncontrollable trembling fit. It took Snow some time to realise that in fact Roger was convulsed with silent laughter. At length he sat up on the bed, his eyes moist with merriment.

  ‘Well, that wasn’t the response I was expecting or hoping for.’ He rubbed his chin and smiled. ‘I suggest we finish the therapy session for today and continue it another time.’

  Snow raised his fist again and Roger held up his arms in a protective gesture. ‘Peace, brother. One punch is enough to cool my ardour, I can assure you.’