Blood Rites: A Detective Inspector Paul Snow thriller

by David Stuart Davies

  After a mug of hot, dark brown tea and the very acceptable bacon sandwich, he felt much better physically. However, inevitably that dark shadow of concern lingered like an indelible stain.

  ‘The colour’s coming back to your cheeks, sir,’ observed Bob cheerfully but without much conviction, still chewing on the remnants of his sandwich.

  Snow smiled. ‘‘A cuppa and a sarnie’ – your cure all remedy, eh?’

  Bob nodded enthusiastically. ‘That and a pint of bitter.’

  Snow maintained the smile but added, ‘I think we’d better get back to the murder scene. I’d like to have a look round.’

  On their return to Lucy Anderson’s flat, they discovered, to Snow’s relief, that the SOCOs had gone, leaving a stoutly built constable on guard by the door. There was still the ghastly array of bloodstains on the sofa and the hearthrug where the girl’s body had been and the smell of death lingered in the muggy air. Snow could not help but grimace as he gazed at the grisly sight.

  ‘You OK, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I’m fine. Let’s have a look around, see if there is anything which might tell us something about Miss Lucy Anderson and her life, relationships etc. Some damned clue as to why anyone should want to kill the girl and why.’ Snow was aware that his voice sounded strained and desperate but that was how he felt.

  The two men moved around the tiny flat silently, opening drawers and cupboards, sifting through the wardrobe. Snow made a note of his surroundings, creating mental images for future reference. In one of the drawers in the kitchen cabinet, he found a photograph album. It was a pictorial history of the girl’s life: baby shots of her in a pram and on the beach, pictures of her at school, at a party, with friends at a disco. But the last few pages were missing, torn out. It was as though Lucy Anderson was trying to deny her recent past. There was just one tiny loose photograph slipped into the plastic covering on the back cover. It was a blurred snap of a very young baby.

  ‘Sir,’ Bob’s urgent voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Look at this.’

  Snow moved to the cramped bedroom where Bob was kneeling down, examining the contents of a large cardboard box. ‘I found this stuffed right under the bed. It’s full of baby clothes.’

  Jigsaw pieces began slipping together in Snow’s mind. ‘You said the neighbour thought there was a baby?’

  Andrews nodded.

  ‘And I’ve just found a picture of a tot – less than six months old I should say.’

  ‘But there’s no sign of it now. Perhaps she had it adopted or maybe the father’s got it. If it’s hers.’

  ‘We’d better circulate as recent a picture of her as we can get hold of to the press and make enquiries at the local hospitals. Someone should come forward to help…’

  As he spoke the words, he knew the sentiment was fragile. Indeed someone should come forward – but often they didn’t. People didn’t want to get involved with the police. They didn’t trust them like they did in the old days. It was easier to let sleeping dogs lie. Even the girl’s parents may not want to identify themselves. The fact that she was living alone in a cheap flat could mean that there had been a rift in the family and her mum and dad had washed their hands of her. Snow knew for a fact that the notion of happy families in the modern world was a romantic concept.

  ‘We’d also better see what the SOCOs found. There’ll be her handbag and possibly other stuff. If there is a baby, I want to know what happened to it. And there is some urgency in the matter.’

  When Snow arrived back at headquarters, he was feeling rough once more. His head pounded and his stomach churned. The greasy bacon sandwich sat uneasily in his gut. He gritted his teeth, desperate to ignore these feelings, but not quite succeeding. Bob Fellows was perceptive enough to note the change once more in Snow’s disposition. ‘You grab a coffee, sir, and sit down,’ he said, ‘while I get in touch with the chief SOCO and find out exactly what they dug up. Then we can have a powwow about our plan of action’.

  Snow felt too weak to argue. ‘Right you are,’ he murmured, giving Fellows a gentle pat on the back.

  Once in his office, he slumped in his chair and ran his hand over his forehead. It was damp with sweat. ‘What the hell is happening to me?’ He uttered the question out loud which prompted him to return in his mind to his own self-diagnosis. He saw himself rather like a balloon that had been filled full of air but maintaining a taut skin which was firm and resilient. This had allowed him to keep so many dark secrets to himself – strictly to himself - over the years. Not least were his sexual proclivities and his own desperate attempts to suppress and divert them. Now, through his own foolishness, he was in relationship hell. This, combined with the extra pressure caused by the total lack of progress in the current murder case, had caused the once firm skin of the balloon to rupture and the whole thing was deflating in an ugly fashion. He was deflating. It was as though his mind was telling his body that he had enough. It was not just a mental rebellion, but a physical one as well.

  While this thought pierced his consciousness, there came a sharp rap at the door; but before he had a chance to respond, it opened and Chief Superintendent Clayborough entered. With one swift movement he shut the door.

  ‘Sir,’ said Snow, half-rising from his chair.

  ‘For God’s sake sit down man, you look awful.’ The voice was harsh, unsympathetic. ‘Are you sickening for something?’

  ‘I’m just feeling a little off colour, sir.’

  ‘Are you? Well, I heard about your little dramatic fainting fit this morning at the crime scene.’

  ‘How…?’

  ‘I have my spies. Very little happens around here that I don’t know about.’

  It’d be one of those bloody SOCOs no doubt, thought Snow. Telling tales to the headmaster in the hope of getting a gold star. Bastard.

  ‘I just felt…’

  ‘A little off colour. I know you said. Well you still look a bit off colour – or, if I may be frank, very much off colour.’

  Snow pursed his lips. He knew what he wanted to say but he still had enough sense and reserve to hold back. He was sure there was more to come. He gazed at the stern features of the man before him. There was smouldering anger there. And Snow reckoned he was the target for it. It was unreasonable and unfair but that’s what happens. You get upset and frustrated that things are not going your way so you kick the dog. It happens in all walks of life and the police force is no different. In this instance, he reckoned he was about to become the dog.

  ‘In my opinion, Paul, you’ve not been functioning on all cylinders for some time. This is the fourth victim now and we’re no bloody nearer nailing the bastard behind these murders. We’re becoming a laughing stock. Incompetent plods. You’ve made no headway whatsoever.’

  ‘You know yourself, sir, that random killings give you no real evidence to work on. Nothing to give us a lead. There is no real pattern – or no discernable pattern behind the crimes.’

  ‘Discernible pattern!’ Clayborough barked the phrase. ‘It’s your job to find one. Four people are dead already! How many corpses do you need to discern the fucking pattern?’

  ‘You’re not being fair, sir. We’re doing our best.’

  Clayborough pursed his lips and raised his brows in bitter disdain. He leaned forward over Snow’s desk, thrusting his face forward. ‘Then your best isn’t good enough,’ he said softly. ‘While you are sitting at your desk, twiddling your thumbs, feeling a little off colour, our man will be out there carving up victim number five.’

  Snow wanted to smash his fist into his superior officer’s face and it took a great deal of self-control to prevent him from doing so. Snow knew Clayborough was being unfair and he knew that Clayborough was aware of it, too. He was taking out his anger and frustration over this case on a junior officer. As the man at the top, he couldn’t appear to be the incompetent one. The one who was failing to catch the killer. A scapegoat had to be found – and Snow now saw that he had been awarded this part. It was a role th
at was new to him and he was unsure how to act.

  Snow opened his mouth to protest but before he had a chance to utter a word Clayborough dropped the bombshell. ‘I’m taking you off the case.’

  ‘What!’ Snow’s body stiffened with shock. It was as though he had been immersed in a bath of ice cold water.

  ‘You’ve obviously got a health issue. You need some time off to recover. You are to take a month’s leave to get yourself and your head together. We’ll review the situation then.’

  ‘You can’t do this…’ The words stumbled out as his mind tried to get to grips with what he was being told.

  Clayborough gave a bitter smile. ‘Oh, yes I can. I’ll pass over the investigation to Crowther. He’s a good man. He’ll lead your team. I’ll leave Fellows in place. He’ll be able to bring Crowther up to speed.’

  ‘This is so unfair.’

  ‘In a situation like this fairness has no place. We have to catch a murderer. We have to protect the public. With four bleeding bodies at your feet, on your watch, you are in no position to talk about fairness. Do you think I’m going to sit up there in my office waiting to hear the news about the next victim and my officer in charge fainting on the crime scene? Go home, Paul. Rest and pull yourself together.’

  With a swift movement he headed for the door where he turned back to face Snow. ‘This isn’t a suggestion, Inspector. It’s an order.’

  He slammed the door as he left.

  Snow felt sick. His stomach retched and for a few moments his vision blurred. He felt unable to move from his chair so devastated was he by Clayborough’s words – his instructions. While his private life was teetering on the edge of an abyss, ready to plunge into disastrous freefall, he always had one rock in his life, one area where he felt secure and more than capable. Now that had been snatched from him. And snatched unfairly. Surely he had done all that was possible in this investigation to follow up what clues, what slender information, had been vouchsafed to him? No one could have done better. Could they? Well, obviously Clayborough thought otherwise. Of course, he realised that his dismissal had a political element to it. Even if the case had not been solved and brought to a successful conclusion, Clayborough would appear to be decisive and on the ball by replacing the incompetent officer in charge of the investigation with a new leader.

  Snow sat slumped in his chair, staring into space, his mind virtually numb. He was tempted to head for the County and get drunk, but he knew this was a stupid idea and certainly would not, in the end, help matters. Getting pie-eyed was the last thing he needed to do.

  Eventually he dragged himself to his feet. In a mechanical fashion, he snatched up a few personal possessions from his desk and then slipped on his overcoat and scarf. Just as he was about to leave the office two mental images flashed into his mind: they were fierce and invigorating. With a grim smile, he returned to his desk and dialled a number.

  ‘Could I speak to Dr Mahendra Patel please? This is the police. Detective Inspector Snow.’ He was told to hold on. It was quite some time before he heard the familiar voice. ‘Paul, is that you? Long time no see.’

  ‘Mahendra, I need your help.’

  Five minutes later he exited the building in some haste hoping that the news of his enforced leave had not yet leaked out. He dreaded bumping into Bob Fellows. He had no idea what he would say to him. As it turned out, he managed his ‘escape’ (as he thought of it) without encountering anyone on his team.

  He hoped to God that the little gleam of an idea would develop into a shaft of light. If only. However, little did he know as he drove out of the police station car park, that in another part of town things were about to get even worse.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY FIVE

  It was the arrival of the post that morning that had started it all, that had pulled the bright and shiny rug from under Roger’s feet. Having been in the little flat for only a few days and not knowing anyone in Huddersfield he wondered who on earth would write to him. He was not used to receiving post, apart from the odd advertising circular. Indeed this morning, apart from a couple of envelopes addressed to The Occupier, there was just the one letter which bore his name. It was a long thin envelope with a translucent window where the typed details could be read. At first, Roger was puzzled by it. Who would be writing to him in such an official way; unless of course it was something from the prison services? He thought he’d had done with all that. Why couldn’t the bastards leave him alone?

  However, the mystery was easily solved when he turned the envelope over and saw the firm’s name printed on the back. Of course, it was about his interview. The one he’d had at haulage firm’s offices just two days ago. This was quick. They had told him that they’d let him know within a week to ten days. He had thought the interview had gone well and he had conducted himself with the right mixture of confidence and deference. He’d left their offices convinced it was in the bag: the job was his.

  Eagerly, he tore open the envelope with a smile and pulled out the sheet of paper with in. The message was brief and to the point; ‘We regret to inform you that you have been unsuccessful…’

  Roger felt as though he had been kicked in the stomach. He read the letter again: ‘regret’ ‘unsuccessful’. There was no indication as to why – bloody why – he had been fucking ‘unsuccessful’. No doubt it was because we don’t want an ex-con soiling our smart office! We’re an honest firm who only employ law abiding citizens – not gay old lags.

  ‘Bastards!’ he bellowed, and screwed up the letter as tightly as he could before hurling it into the far corner. ‘Bastards!’ he cried again, tiny tears of angry frustration starting to drip down his face.

  He still needed to release more tension, so he snatched up his coffee mug and hurled it at the wall. It smashed, the coffee splashing everywhere, leaving the wall decorated with brown rivulets.

  He retrieved the letter and un-crumpling it, laid it out on the table and re-read it once more, this time aloud. This was it then. He saw this rejection as merely the first of many. No one would employ him ever again. A man in his early thirties with no particular skills and with a prison record. He was on the scrap heap. Finished. Washed up. A bloody, fucking failure.

  ‘We regret to inform you that you have been unsuccessful…’ he roared at the top of his voice, before heading for the kitchen cupboard where he kept a bottle of gin. He banged it down on the table and stared at it for over a minute, feeling the hurt of the rejection burn into his soul.

  At last he retrieved a glass from the work surface. ‘Why not? he muttered. ‘Why fucking not.’ His voice was low now, but still filled with hardly restrained fury and hatred. He poured himself a large gin and downed it in two gulps. It burned the back of his throat and he coughed and gulped with the shock of it. When he recovered, he laughed. ‘That was good. I reckon I’ll have another.’ After pouring himself another drink, he slammed the bottle down again, this time on top of his letter of rejection.

  In time the alcohol eased his mind, but played about with his thoughts. He was self-obsessed at the best of times and this, he was in no doubt, was not the best of times. He was alone, he mused. Alone, wretched and a pariah. He needed love and support. He needed someone to share his woes, ease his passage through this barren time. Someone to hold his hand and take him somewhere good. What was that old fashioned, biblical-type word? Ah, yes ‘succour’. That’s what he needed: succour. And he knew who he wanted, needed to provide it. His new best friend. His new lover. Dear old Paul. He would come to his rescue and provide that shoulder for him to cry on. And my god (another gulp of gin) did he need that shoulder now.

  With this thought firmly in his mind, he made his way to the telephone and rang the police HQ in Huddersfield. On being connected, he asked to speak with Detective Inspector Paul Snow. This request prompted a series of questions which he found irritating: what was his name, what was the call in connection with etc, fucking etc. ‘Look I just want to speak to Paul. It’s a personal matter,’
he growled into the mouth piece. There was a brief silence before he was informed that DI Snow was not available at present. ‘Oh, go screw yourself,’ he snapped before dashing the receiver down. No doubt his darling Paul was out there arresting some ne’er do well – just when he needed him the most.

  He slumped down at the kitchen table once more and took another slug of gin. Things will have to be done, he thought, his brain completely succumbing to the effects of alcohol now. He needed Paul and that was the most important thing.

  On leaving the police HQ car park, feeling like a naughty schoolboy who has been expelled, Paul began to head for the Huddersfield Infirmary. The car park, as usual, was full, with some cars parked on grass verges and other places where vehicles should not be parked. ‘The hospital is doing big business,’ he observed sourly to himself as he parked in a disabled bay and placed the card reading ‘POLICE’ on his dashboard.

  With some alacrity he entered the hospital and made his way past the cafeteria and down corridor three which had a temporary sign taped on the door announcing ‘Dr M Patel’s Surgery’. Halfway down there was a waiting bay where a small group of outpatients were gathered. They possessed glum and bored faces, staring gloomily into space. A young nurse approached Snow with a clipboard. ‘Name?’ she said. She was glum and bored also.