Blood Rites: A Detective Inspector Paul Snow thriller

by David Stuart Davies

  He was a bastard. With this one idea burning fiercely in her mind, Matilda rose from her chair and with great deliberation moved out into the hall, retrieved her coat and bag and left the house.

  Paul was a bastard and she intended to tell him so.

  The taxi dropped Roger off at his flat. When the driver had first asked him where he wanted to go, he had been tempted to ask to be dropped somewhere in town. He would seek out a bar and continue drinking but he realised that was a pointless activity. He had drunk enough today. He felt strangely sober now and he wanted to remain that way. What he had done to his sister had been hurtful and he knew she would not forgive him, but it had cleared the decks and, he hoped to God, that it had provided a chink of an opportunity for him to be happy. Maybe with Paul’s help and love, he could survive, make something of himself again. He knew he would have to do a lot of persuading and cajoling, but he was good at that.

  Once indoors he slumped down on the sofa with nothing stronger than a cup of tea. He switched on the television and stared at it, mesmerised by the shifting patterns on the screen but he wasn’t watching it. His tired mind roamed over the events of the day and wondered what he would say to Paul the next time he saw him.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Snow took a short step backwards with the force of the slap. His face stung and his eyes watered, but he did not mind. He guessed immediately why she had done that. Her face revealed it all. She knew. She knew all about him. Roger had told her. It was all there to be gleaned from her tear-washed angry visage. He accepted that he was fully deserving of her fury and, indeed, very much more. Having delivered the blow, Matilda seemed on the verge of turning on her heel and leaving. Snow reached out and grabbed her arm.

  ‘No,’ he cried. ‘Don’t go. Don’t go like this. We need to talk.’

  ‘There is nothing to say.’

  ‘I think there is. Please.’ He let go of her arm and placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘Please. I beg you. Please.’

  Some moments later, they were in the sitting room. Matilda had refused to take off her coat or sit down. She stood close to the door, her emotions now calmly held in check.

  Snow stood awkwardly by the fire place. ‘I am sorry…’ he said lamely.

  ‘What for? Deceiving me. Pretending that you felt something for me when it was all a lie, a bloody pretence. A cover for you. For your real passions. Old Chinese proverb: man with girlfriend is not queer.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Wasn’t it? Well, then, perhaps you’ll tell me what it was like.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you or deceive you. I thought it was different with you. The only person I was deceiving was myself.’

  ‘You are a homosexual.’

  Snow cringed at the word. It was horrid and clinical. But he could not deny it.

  ‘Yes,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I suppose that is my label. I have tried to subvert my sexuality for years. I certainly would not have got where I am in the police force if it were known I was… I was that way. It’s not been easy. I didn’t ask to be like this. There’s no choice in the matter, you know. For the most part I have been celibate. I had been for some time when I met you. I suppressed my emotions and got on with my life. The police work was my life. Then, suddenly, there was you. You were so warm, kind… I liked you a lot and when you seemed to like me … well, I wondered. Maybe…’

  ‘Maybe,’ she repeated the word, but she turned it into a sneer.

  ‘Maybe it could work. I wanted some companionship in my life.’

  ‘You were lonely and couldn’t risk kissing a man. Is that it?’

  Snow shook his head. ‘I cared for you. I still do.’

  ‘But not in that way, eh? Not in the way it matters to a woman. Your stomach must have been churning when you made love to me.’

  ‘No, no. You’ve got it all wrong.’

  She gave a bitter derisive laugh. ‘I’ve got it all wrong? That’s bloody rich. Where on earth did you see our relationship going, eh?’

  ‘To be honest, I tried not to think that far ahead.’

  ‘No. You were too wrapped up in protecting yourself – maintaining the charade.’

  ‘Oh, Matilda, I never saw it as a charade.’ He slumped down in a chair and dropped his head into his hands. He had run out of words.

  Gazing at him, Matilda felt a pang of sympathy. ‘I suppose I’ve had a lucky escape. Well, we’ve both had a lucky escape.’ Her tone was kinder now, more reflective.

  He looked up at her. There were tears in his eyes. ‘Please believe me, I never meant to hurt you.’

  She didn’t reply, but her eyes told him that, despite her anger, she accepted what he said.

  ‘What are you going to do about Roger?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing. That was an aberration. A weakness. It was a physical thing – lust if you like. But it can go nowhere and I don’t want it to.’

  ‘A physical thing! Can you hear yourself? My God, Paul, you’ve made an almighty mess of things.’

  ‘I guess so. All I can do is say sorry and hope you can forgive me.’

  ‘I’m too angry at the moment to contemplate forgiveness. You knew right from the start that you were experimenting and using me as a guinea pig. It’s a bloody big ask to forgive you for that. You are a sensitive, intelligent human being and fully aware what you were doing. It was selfish and cruel. You never really considered my emotions at all.’

  Snow hadn’t seen things in this way, but expressed harshly by Matilda, he knew that she was right. Her condemnation of him and his motives were valid and justified. He shook his head in self-disgust.

  ‘I’m going now Paul. Please do not try to contact me. I never want to see you again. Is that clear?’

  He opened his mouth to protest but he realised immediately that it was pointless. Matilda was right. There would be no point in prolonging matters. He nodded his head. ‘Yes. Yes, it’s very clear.’

  Without another word, she swept from the room and a few seconds later he heard the front door slam. The sound echoed around the silent house. A wave of sadness swamped him. He was aware that in his own way he had cared for Matilda. More than he had previously realised. She had become part of his life and had brought some warmth and humanity into his rather barren existence. And now she had gone. And it was all his fault. His stupid fault.

  Gradually, he was being isolated. His girlfriend had gone and his job was slipping away from him. God knows what Roger would do when he rejected his advances. His anger and petulance might easily prompt him to broadcast to the world that his sister’s boyfriend was a closet queer. Snow knew that such an exposure would complete his ruination. He would be finished on the force and he would be finished in the town. Quite simply he would be finished. The slamming of that door was symbolic: it was like a door closing on his past life, sealing it off forever.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY EIGHT

  It was about three o’clock in the morning when Snow gave up all hope of getting any sleep that night. His mind was a viper’s nest of thoughts. They wriggled and thrashed around in his brain until his temples throbbed and his head ached. Bright, garish images paraded in quick succession before his inner eye: Matilda’s tear-stained face, the twisted corpse of Lucy Anderson lying amid a scattering of baby clothes, Roger’s beguiling lips, twisting mechanically into an infuriating rictus grin. And Chief Superintendent Adam Clayborough, striding from his office and slamming the door with such ferocity that the walls crumbled away leaving a barren rock strewn landscape. With a groan, he switched his bedside light on and surrendered. It was no sleep for him that night – and the way he felt, never again.

  With the slow movements of a geriatric, he donned his dressing gown and padded downstairs to the kitchen. He made himself a cup of strong black coffee and slumped down at the table. After a while the fierce hot brew revived him somewhat. The file Bob Fellows had brought him was still lying there untouched and unread
. Idly, he flipped back the cover. Why not? He thought. Why not give it a perusal? For God’s sake I’ve nothing better to do and it might take my mind off the demons in my head. This thought encouraged him. He was, he knew, never happier, never more relaxed, never more himself than when he was involved in police work. It was unsentimental, analytical, involving objective thought and action. He was able to lock away all personal concerns while wearing his Detective Inspector’s hat. God knows how long he would be able to do that – so let’s get on with it. He took a large gulp of the scalding coffee and focused his eyes on the material in the file.

  Most of the forms and reports were very familiar to him - indeed, he had penned a number himself – but it was good to reacquaint himself with all the material, allowing him to gain a detailed overview of the murders. He was able to connect the pattern in his mind, although he still could not observe a connecting link between all four incidents. Then he came to the last murder, the young girl Lucy Anderson. Briefly he had a flashback to his fainting episode in her flat that morning and his mouth ran dry at the recollection, but with a determined effort he squeezed it from his thoughts. He told himself that it was of no consequence now and that he must concentrate on the job in hand. It was when he began reading the list of contents in the girl’s handbag that he began to grow excited. One item stood out from the rest. One item that seemed to solve his dilemma. One item that may well provide him with that much searched for connection. One item that may well indicate the identity of the murderer. It certainly showed him that he needed to speak to someone urgently.

  When daylight first squeezed its way into the December sky, it revealed that it had snowed in the night and left a slushy white covering over the land. Errant flakes still spattered against the window pane and Snow could hear car engines out in the street revving hard in the slippery white stuff. He suddenly realised that he was hungry – he’d not eaten for nearly twenty four hours – so he made himself some breakfast: a couple of boiled eggs and toast. Then slowly he carried out his morning ablutions. He knew that he could not set off too early for his destination. He didn’t want to drag the man from his bed. Once he was dressed, he made himself another cup of coffee and listened to the news on the radio. It was after noon when he set off.

  It had started snowing again with some force and the traffic was sluggish. He tried to be patient and careful, despite his eagerness to reach his destination as soon as possible. Once again he ran his theory through his mind trying to fit his suppositions in with the known facts and educated guesses to see if it really created a credible scenario. It had seemed so clever and clear the night before, but now in the grim, bleary light of day he was not so sure. What the hell, he had to try it out. There was nothing to lose, was there? He had taken risks in the past which had proved successful.

  His desire to drive faster was quelled by the sight of a shunting accident. Three cars had slithered into each other on the icy slush. Their owners, snow bedecked silhouettes, were standing by their damaged vehicles exchanging details. Snow resigned himself to being the safe tortoise this morning, rather than the careless hare.

  Eventually, he reached his destination just after nine o’clock. St Joseph’s church looked very festive with its white winter dusting and the coloured lights of a Christmas tree illuminating the gloom of the porch. On leaving his car, Snow observed a figure, starkly black against the bleached out background, bending low with a large shovel clearing the path. He grew erect at Snow’s approach. It was the church warden, Brian Stead.

  ‘Come to give me a hand have you? I’ve got a spare shovel.’

  ‘Another time perhaps,’ said Snow pleasantly.

  ‘Might not be needed at another time. No time like the present.’ The gruff, humourless tone clearly indicated to Snow that Stead was not indulging in light banter. He really was serious about recruiting the policeman’s services to help clear the path.

  ‘I need to speak with Father Vincent rather urgently.’ He made a move to pass the church warden and head for the church door.

  ‘You won’t find him in there,’ grunted Stead.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’ll be at the vicarage. Like as not in his tool shed at the bottom of the garden. He’s there most afternoons pottering about. God’s work comes later.’

  ‘Where…?’

  ‘Back of the church, beyond the gravestones. You’ll see the path, unless it’s snowed up. Vicarage is through the gate there. You can’t miss it. You being a detective like.’ He smiled mischievously.

  Snow nodded his thanks and moved on. He made his way as directed and indeed the path was snowed up. It had drifted up against the church wall and the wet soggy slush came over his shoes as he walked. He passed through the gate down the virgin snow of the path leading to the door of the vicarage. He rang the doorbell but there was no reply and so reluctantly he made his way around the back of the property where he espied a substantial garden shed, the light from its illuminated window spilling a golden rectangle onto the smooth white bedecked lawn.

  He trudged through the snow and knocked hard on the wooden door. Moments later it was yanked wide by the occupant. Father Vincent peered at the dark figure on the threshold. ‘Why, it’s you, Inspector,’ he said at length. ‘Come in. Come in. What on earth brings you here on such an inhospitable wintry day?’ He took Snow’s arm and led him to a chair close to where there was an electric fire with two orange bars humming with heat.

  The room contained a work bench and a set of woodworking tools fixed neatly to the wall. There was what appeared to be a table leg clamped in the vice on the edge of the bench and an abandoned chisel lying nearby. ‘I’m just making some minor adjustments to one of the chairs in the vestry. It’s rather old and wobbly,’ the priest explained.

  Snow nodded.

  ‘Now, I was just about to have a cup of tea and from the greyness of your complexion, I reckon you could do with one also.’ He pointed to a small table with tea making equipment at the far side of the bench. ‘All mod cons here, y’know.’

  Snow really didn’t want to get involved in the rigmarole of a tea ceremony but he knew that it would be easier to go along with it. ‘A little milk, no sugar,’ he said politely.

  Father Vincent poured some water into a large, old fashioned electric kettle. He then plugged it in and organised two mugs with tea bags. While the kettle began its boiling process he turned to Snow with a gentle smile. ‘There, we’ll soon have a brew. I’m down here most weekday afternoons, doing a little work on the bench or just reading – the newspaper or a light novel. It’s a kind of haven. There’s nothing in here connected with my calling. No church related stuff. That’s all in the vicarage. I believe in trying to stand back from religion for a while. It helps one gain a perspective on the world and, in a way, helps me do my job all the better. I think sometimes people forget that priests are human beings with personal interests and concerns of their own.’ He ran his hand down the chair leg and then extracted it from the vice. ‘A little woodwork is very therapeutic. It allows me to escape into my own little world for a while. Do you have a hobby or a pastime, Inspector, something that helps you shrug off some of the worries and responsibilities of police work?’

  ‘Not really,’ admitted Snow.

  ‘That’s a shame. The stress of the job can eat away at you.’

  ‘You feel like that sometimes, do you?’

  Father Vincent paused to pour the hot water into the mugs. ‘Sometimes,’ he said softly. He finished making the tea and without another word handed Snow his mug.

  He sat down opposite the policeman with a sigh. ‘So, as I was saying: what brings you here, Inspector?’

  ‘You,’ said Snow simply.

  ‘Me. I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m not sure I do either, but I thought you’d be able to help me.’

  ‘If I can, but I doubt it. I am assuming you are referring to the unfortunate deaths of Sammy Tindall and Frank Sullivan. Well, I’ve told you all I kno
w.’

  ‘I am not convinced that you have.’

  ‘Oh. Do explain.’

  ‘Let me present you with an overall picture.’

  The priest gave a gentle sardonic smile and nodded his head. ‘By all means.’

  ‘In the last six weeks there have been four murders in this area. We are convinced that all the crimes were committed by the same person. The modus operandi was identical in each case and forensics informs us that the weapon was the same: a large serrated knife – maybe a kitchen knife. Now, two of the victims were regular parishioners of yours: Tindall and Sullivan.’

  ‘That is more or less correct, although I would perhaps quibble at the description ‘regular’. They certainly visited the church on occasion but I would hardly call them regular.’

  ‘O.K. But you took for confession from both of them.’

  ‘They came to see me, yes. I told you all that.’

  ‘And you assured me that nothing they said would aid me in my investigation.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now I come to the other two murders. First there was Simon Barraclough. A fellow who had no religious convictions whatsoever.’

  ‘I know nothing about him.’

  ‘Well, we’ll put him to one side for a moment and turn to the most recent victim: Lucy Anderson. I have reason to believe that she visited your church also, probably for a confession.’

  Father Vincent took a sip of tea before responding. ‘Really. What leads you to this conclusion?’

  Snow leaned forward in his chair and pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. It was the picture of Christ taken from Frank Sullivan’s locker. He held it up in front of the priest. ‘A copy of this was found crumpled up very tightly in the handbag of Lucy Anderson. She didn’t come by it by accident. She either took it from the church or more likely she was given it. Lucy was an unmarried mother, another sinner in the eyes of the church, in your eyes…’