One of the faces on the tapes, a young man with blonde hair, had seemed the most overwhelmed and indeed the one treated most cruelly. He screamed to be let free, but his agonised cries only spurred on the assailants to more frenzied actions. Left on his own, Snow turned the television on again and began playing the first tape. He saw Wilkinson enter the bedroom with his victim, a chubby young man with dyed blonde hair wearing a black T-shirt and cream chinos. As he moved forward to kiss the boy, Wilkinson turned and gave a knowing smile at the hidden camera.
Snow clicked the recorder on to freeze frame and gazed at the fuzzy image of that self satisfied face for some time. He gazed and remembered.
He had only been a young copper in his early twenties when he first encountered Matt Wilkinson about ten years before. He was off duty in one of the arty pubs in town when two men at the bar started an argument. Voices were raised and Snow could see things were going to get rough any time soon. His heart sank. He’d only come in for a quiet pint and a scan of the evening paper, but he knew that if a fracas developed he would have to step in to try and sort it out. He was an officer of the law after all.
The two men started pushing each other like kids in the playground. Under different circumstances it might have been funny. One of men was Wilkinson, a man about his own age, smartly dressed with a good physique. The other, an older stouter man threw the first punch but it missed its target. Wilkinson pulled back, his face registering dismay that the situation had developed into such a violent one. He held up his hands in a defensive almost placatory manner, but his companion was having none of it. He picked up one of the barstools with the intent of bringing it crashing down on Wilkinson’s head. It was then that Snow intervened. He stepped forward and grabbed the man’s arm, freezing it in mid-air.
‘Don’t be a pillock. Put the stool down,’ he said quietly
‘Who the hell are you?’ snarled the man as he tried to wrench his arm free from Snow’s iron grip.
‘I’m the law, matey and if you don’t do what I say, I’ll arrest you for causing an affray.’
Again the man tried to free himself and again he failed. He turned and stared into the face of this tall young man and saw something in his cold ice blue eyes that scared him and quelled his anger. Slowly he placed the stool on the floor.
‘He’s not worth the hassle,’ he said with a sneer, attempting to regain some of his dignity.
‘There’s a good chap,’ said Snow, still maintaining his hold on the man’s arm. ‘Now I suggest you leave. Pop off home to cool down.’
For a moment the man’s eyes flickered with hot resentment again. He seemed about to retaliate but instead he turned towards Wilkinson. ‘You can get lost, you pathetic bastard,’ he jeered and jerking his arm free from Snow’s loosened grip he headed for the door.
While all this had been happening, the other customers in the bar had been held motionless in frozen fascination and silence had fallen. As soon as the man had disappeared through the door, the place sprang back into life once more: drinks were ordered, conversation renewed, normality was restored.
‘I think I owe you a pint,’ said Wilkinson.
Paul Snow was about to refuse, but his copper’s curiosity got the better of him. He’d quite like to know what had been the cause of the kerfuffle and besides this fellow had rather a charming way with him.
‘Just a half then,’ he said with a gentle smile.
‘Grab a seat and I’ll bring it over to you.’
Paul did as he was told and when Wilkinson appeared he was carrying two pints and a couple of packets of crisps.
‘Can’t let you off with a half,’ he grinned. ‘A pint a least for the hero who saved me from a bloody nose. I’m Matt Wilkinson.’
‘Paul Snow.’
‘And you’re really a copper.’
‘Indeed I am. So… what was that all about?’
Wilkinson took a gulp of his pint and then glanced shyly at Snow over the rim of the glass. ‘Oh, something and nothing.’
Snow raised his brow. ‘A little more, I suspect.’
‘Personal stuff really. Nothing that would interest you, I’m sure.’
Snow was definitely interested but he decided not to push it and let the matter drop. He wasn’t in the interrogation room now.
‘So… do you come here often?’ said Wilkinson with a giggle.
Snow laughed too. The ice was broken. Both men relaxed.
What they talked about that night Snow could not remember now, but it was easy, engaging and somehow pleasurable. As they downed their third pint together, he had no doubts about Matt Wilkinson’s sexuality. Previously when he had met men like Wilkinson, charming and attractive, but batting for the other side as his colleagues at the station might have put it, he had walked away. It wasn’t that he was in a state of denial but he wasn’t yet prepared to cross the bridge from self acceptance to participation. That way madness lies, he told himself. Well, if not madness, various dangers. As a police officer with ‘a promising future’ as he had been told on more than one occasion by various superior officers, he knew he had to be careful – more particularly, he had to be straight or perceived to be straight. So, as a result, Snow preferred to remain isolated, intact for as long as he could manage it. He had been tempted in the past but his reserve and what he regarded as his own sense of self preservation had always been greater than his physical desires. Tonight, however, he felt his defensive shield slipping a little.
Wilkinson was a physically attractive bloke, but it was more than his appearance that captivated Snow. There was something glamorous about his personality and dangerous, too. There was an edge to him that both threatened and appealed. Even in a casual conversation he could turn from the frivolous to the covertly threatening in an instant. There was no doubt about it, Mr Matt Wilkinson had a dark side – but that was part of the attraction.
They stayed until closing time and stools were being placed on the tables. Snow wasn’t drunk but he had consumed more alcohol than usual, more than he should. Already, he thought, I’m breaking my own rules under the influence of this man.
‘Pity to call it a night so early, Paul. How about a coffee at my place, maybe a wee nightcap as well? I live not too far away. I have a flat in Orchard Row.’
Snow nodded.
On entering Wilkinson’s flat, he was conscious that he had taken several steps forward on to the bridge. Both men knew that beneath their apparently innocent conversation, there were undercurrents, electrical impulses. Snow wondered how long it would be before they became overt.
He refused a whisky nightcap and stuck with coffee. Wilkinson put on a Miles Davis LP and disappeared into the galley kitchen of his smart but decidedly tiny flat. In his absence, Snow surveyed the sitting room, his policeman’s antennae fully extended. The fittings were classy and stylish, with odd touches of extravagance like the real onyx ashtray and the top of the range hi-fi unit. It was meticulously tidy and organised.
He perched on the edge of a leather armchair and lit a cigarette and pondered the question: what was he doing here?
Wilkinson returned shortly with a tray bearing coffee in two smart black mugs and two crystal tumblers holding a generous measure of what Snow assumed was whisky. The smell told him it that it was single malt.
‘Just in case you changed your mind,’ he said impishly placing the tray down on a coffee table within Snow’s reach. He stretched out on the sofa.
‘Lovely music. Do you like Davis?’
‘I’m not too familiar with him. Sounds fine though.’
‘Cool is the word, man. Cool.’ He took a sip of whisky and gazed directly at Snow. ‘So… where do we go from here?’
Paul did not know how to answer that question and after an awkward pause he responded with a slight shrug.
‘You do know what I mean?’ Wilkinson said casually placing his fingers to his lips and blowing a kiss in Snow’s direction.
Paul felt his whole body tense. ‘Yes,’ he said q
uietly and then shook his head. ‘I suppose I do. It’s just…I’m… sorry. But I’m … not ready…’
Wilkinson’s face darkened. ‘But I am. Ready and gagging, my dear.’
Snow stood awkwardly. This was going too fast for him. ‘I think I’d better go.’
‘Oh, my God, we’re not a virgin are we?’ There was an edge of frustrated disgust in Wilkinson’s voice.
Snow made his way to the door. ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ he said, fully aware what an idiotic remark that was particularly as he had not touched it.
‘And thanks for nothing, Mr Tease.’
‘I’m sorry if… Well, I’m sorry.’
He hurried out of the flat and into the cool air of the street. For some moments Snow leaned against the wall and tried to bring his emotions into check. He hoped that he had done the right thing by leaving, despite the temptation to stay and all that it would have entailed. Sense had ruled over emotional inclination. As it should, he told himself.
As it should.
Only…
Fumbling in his jacket, he extracted another cigarette and lit up before moving on his way. Home to his tiny, empty terrace house. He had hardly reached the end of the street before he was experiencing pangs of regret. Suddenly he stopped, gazed at the night sky for a moment and then took a deep breath before turning round and retracing his steps.
TWENTY-TWO
Paul Snow took a trip out to Matt Wilkinson’s house at Ravensfield. He’d been there once before with Bob Fellows when the place had been crawling with the scenes of crime officers and grumpy old Dr Strong, the pathologist, was pontificating in terms very few could understand. Seeing the body of Matt Wilkinson, the back of his skull resembling a crimson sponge, had shaken Snow to the core. For a time, he felt nauseous and his vision blurred. Very little had sunk in and he quickly made his excuses to slip outside for a cigarette and gulp of air. This did not arouse anyone’s suspicions. It was well known on the force that Snow was a bit queasy in the presence of a dead body, particularly one that had been disfigured.
Snow had leaned against the wall of the house and taken in several deep breaths before lighting up. It was so strange to see the man he had been quite fond of all that time ago lying dead before him, his head almost beaten to pulp, his sightless eyes staring out at the living world in horror.
Snow had not seen or indeed heard of Wilkinson for about ten years. Not since their brief affair had come to a bitter close. What had started tentatively and gently ended acrimoniously. But before it did, there had been moments of an unusual kind of sweetness in their relationship. Wilkinson had in some strange way helped Snow admit and then accept what he was. For a few weeks he felt properly himself for the first time since he had reached manhood. However, Snow came to learn that Wilkinson was also controlling, devious, and cruel. He was a strange mixture of the possessive and the promiscuous. There was no way the relationship could survive and besides Snow knew that if it continued inevitably his private life would be discovered by his colleagues, whose job was curiosity after all. For a short time he walked a dangerous tightrope and although he was relieved when it was all over, Snow knew that he would be grateful to Matt Wilkinson for allowing him to be himself, even if it was for a brief butterfly moment.
And now he was engaged to solve his murder.
So here was back at the scene of the killings on his own. He wandered around the ghost house, observing but not touching. Anything of real relevance would have been bagged up and taken for forensic examination anyway. The bloodstains remained on the gym floor, creating a weird dark crimson pattern on the polished woodwork, reminding Snow of a piece of Jackson Pollock artwork. The smell of death lingered in the room and he felt uneasy in its presence. He retreated and returned downstairs. While passing through the sitting room towards the outer door his eyes lit upon the onyx ashtray he had used that first night in Wilkinson’s flat, that ocean of time ago. It brought a wry smile to his mouth. ‘Come on, boy,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Put the past behind you and start dealing with the bloody present.’
Bobby Rawlins was a cockney skeleton in an Hawaiian shirt. Well, that’s how Paul Snow thought of him. His pale face was crisscrossed with a thousand wrinkles, the result of a thousand late nights and thousand fags from a chain-smoking habit which began some forty years ago when Bobby was twelve.
Rawlins was the owner of the Starlight Club. Snow had never been into the club as a punter, although he had been tempted in his early days, but he had visited the ‘cockney skeleton’ a few times in recent years regarding various drug offences in the club. Nothing had been proved. ‘Would I sell that stuff on my own turf, Mr Snow, I ask you?’ He was right out of central casting as a dodgy small time East End villain. How he’d found his way up the M1 to Yorkshire was anyone’s guess.
‘Mr Snow, how nice.’ He rose from his cluttered desk in his cluttered office and extended a bony arm and smiled, revealing a set of uneven yellow teeth. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘You’ve heard about the murders out at Ravensfield.’
‘Oh, yeah. Terrible. You’re not safe in your own home these days are yer?’
Snow slipped a set of photographs on to Rawlins’ desk. One was of Matt Wilkinson which the SOCOs had found at his house. It showed him in some café raising a glass of wine in a toast to the photographer. The other was a mortuary shot of Dave Johnson.
‘These are two of the victims. Do you recognise them?’
Rawlins averted his gaze. ‘Recognise them. Why the hell should I recognise them? What are you suggestin’?’
‘We have reason to believe they were regular customers of your club. In fact they used it as a pick up station.’
Rawlins grinned, the yellow teeth making another appearance. ‘Now there’s a surprise. Come on, get real, Inspector. I reckon that every club in this fair land is used as a pick up station, especially on a Saturday night. That’s part of their function. In fact I met my missus in a dancing club.’
‘Not in a gay club.’
‘Now don’t start slapping labels on my place. This is a disco, mate. I have no control over the clientele. I run a respectable business. As I’ve told you before, nothing goes on in my place that is against the law. I can’t vouch for what happens outside.’
Snow sighed. ‘I’m not here to discuss the nature of your club or what goes on here. I just want to know about these two men.’
He pushed the photographs along the desk nearer to Rawlins and placed a finger on the one showing Wilkinson.
‘This fellow for instance. His name’s Matt Wilkinson. You must have seen him before. He’s been around on the gay scene for years.’
I should know.
With some reluctance, Rawlins glanced down at the photograph.
‘Yeah,’ he said at length. ‘I reckon I’ve clocked him the club a few times. A Saturday nighter. On the prowl. Usually with a couple of mates.’
‘This one of them?’ Snow indicated the other photograph.
‘Could be. Not a studio portrait is it? And it’s not exactly bright lights in the club y’know. Sometimes it’s difficult to see people’s faces.’ He gave the photograph a second look. ‘Yeah, I reckon he could have been one of them.’
‘On the prowl?’
‘As I said, that’s the function of these places. A chance to meet new people. Chat ‘em up. Find the love of your life.’
‘Seems that didn’t happen to these two.’
Rawlins shrugged. ‘There’s such a thing as a one night stand. You must have had one of those, Inspector. Red-blooded chap like you.’
Snow ignored the remark and slipped the photographs back in the envelope.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing more you can tell me about Wilkinson and his friend? Both men were brutally murdered hours after leaving your club.’
‘Them’s the key words ain’t they: ‘after leavin’? It had nothing to do with my place. If they’d been to the paper shop a couple of hours before they got the chop, woul
d you be round the newsagent now giving him some hassle? I think not. Look Inspector, I’m sorry about these blokes, but to me they were just punters. Sure I saw them around in the club but I didn’t know them personally and I can’t answer for what they got up or what happened to them after they left my place.’
‘Who was serving behind the bar last Saturday night?’
Rawlins frowned. ‘Oh, you’re not going to bother him are you? He’s just a young kid.’
‘This is murder enquiry, Mr Rawlins. I’d question a babe in arms if I thought it would lead me to the truth. What’s his name?’
‘It’s Sandy. Sandy McAndrew.’
‘And where will I find him?’
Snow found Sandy McAndrew early that evening in his dingy bedsit in dingy bedsitland near to the railway station. He was a small, slightly built youth who looked younger than his twenty two years.
‘This won’t take long will it? I’m due at work in half an hour.’
At the Starlight?’ asked Snow perching precariously on the edge of the unmade bed.
McAndrew shook his head as he pulled a shiny red jacket from the clothes rail. It bore the logo ‘Frankie’s’ on the breast pocket. He pointed to it. ‘No, at Frankie’s,’ he said, ‘the burger place on Firth Street. You know it? I work there three nights a week. I have four jobs in all. I need them in order to keep me in this lap of luxury.’ He threw an arm out to indicate his shabby quarters. ‘I work most days at the Crematorium, ashes to ashes, a stint at Starlight on Friday and Saturday night and help a friend out on his fruit stall at the Monday market. I aim to be a millionaire by the time I’m thirty. Either that or I’ll be dead from exhaustion.’
Snow smiled. He warmed to the lad. At least he was trying with life. ‘I shan’t keep you long,’ he said.
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