Brothers in Blood

by David Stuart Davies

  When Laurence arrived at the hospital, having taken a taxi from Huddersfield Station, the first things he observed were the two police cars with flashing lights parked right by the entrance. Two uniformed officers were leaning against the side of one vehicle, each with their arms folded engaged in a casual conversation.

  With assumed casualness, Laurence sauntered past the policemen as though they didn’t exist and made his way into the foyer; they in return took no notice of him.

  Once inside the hospital, he approached the information desk. ‘I’ve seen the cops outside. Been a bit of trouble?’ he said cheerily, with a strong trace of a Yorkshire accent.

  The buxom grey-haired lady behind the counter looked puzzled.

  ‘The police. Two cars, flashing lights. Something up?’ Laurence prompted her again.

  ‘Oh, that. Yes…’ She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘There’s been a bit of funny business up in Intensive Care. They’re not saying much but I heard there’d been an intruder.’

  Laurence felt his mouth go dry. ‘Oh, I see,’ he found himself saying as his mind whirled, trying to digest this surprising piece of information: ‘A bit of funny business up in Intensive Care … there’d been an intruder.’ What kind of ‘funny business’? Surely it must have something to do with Mr Ronnie Fraser. An intruder? Who the hell was that? An answer struck him immediately. He hoped to God…? What the hell should he do now?

  ‘I said, how may I help you?’ the woman was saying. Laurence hadn’t heard her the first time. He had been caught up in his own desperate thoughts. He smiled apologetically and desperately trying to bring his mind on track said the first thing that came in his head. ‘Blood tests. Where do I go for blood tests?’

  ‘Down Corridor B and take the stairs to the basement.’ She leaned forward and pointed. ‘You’ll see it signposted on the wall down there.’

  He thanked her and, moving away, followed the directions he’d been given until he was out of the woman’s line of vision. Then he made his way to the little cafeteria and bought himself a coffee, wishing it were a whisky, and sat at a table by the fish tank to ponder what he was going to do next.

  ‘A bit of funny business in Intensive Care’. What the hell had happened up there? Who was this intruder? What had he done? Had they caught him? He prayed that it wasn’t Russell. Stupid Russell, trying to take the law into his own hands. He closed his eyes to squeeze this terrible thought from his mind, for he knew that if this were the case, the whole world could soon come tumbling about his head. His mission now had taken on a completely different and somewhat more dangerous dimension. He knew that he’d have to try and get up to the Intensive Care Unit and see if he could find out more details.

  He took a sip of the brown water that professed to be coffee and grimaced. God, he thought, no wonder there are ill people in here if they have to drink this stuff. Pushing the offending plastic cup away he rose from his chair. Time for action he told himself and after consulting the map of the hospital on the wall by the café entrance, he rode up to the third floor in the lift. On exiting, he followed the signs for the Intensive Care Unit. It was strangely quiet, no bustling nurses, tired doctors or ambling porters and no patients abandoned on the corridor on a trolley or in a wheelchair. And apparently no police presence. Thank heaven. The whole area had an air of desolation about it. Turning a corner, he approached a pair of double doors above which bore the legend painted in black: Intensive Care. Ah, thought Laurence, here they are: plods on the port bow. There were two policemen standing on guard outside. As he approached, one of them held up his hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, you can’t go in here. The ward is closed for the moment. Only medical staff are allowed entry. I suggest you come back this evening.’

  ‘Oh dear. That’s a beggar,’ Laurence said, shaking his head. ‘What’s going on, officer?’

  ‘There’s been a bit of trouble. Nothing to worry about. It’s all under control.’

  Laurence knew that he had to tread carefully, but that he still had to tread.

  ‘It’s not to do with that Fraser chappie is it?’

  The policeman’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you know about Mr Fraser? Are you a friend of his?’

  Laurence shook his head vigorously. ‘Not I,’ he said. ‘It’s just what I read in paper. Has something happened to him?’

  ‘Nothing that need concern you, sir.’

  ‘I’m just concerned about my mother in there.’ He pointed at the double doors.

  Laurence knew that this was taking a big risk. He had no knowledge that there was an old woman in the ward and if there was he certainly had no name for her.

  ‘All the patients are being treated as normal, sir. They are receiving the appropriate care. I’m sure your mother is in safe hands and as I say you should be able to visit her this evening.’ With lifeless eyes, he spoke in strong measured tones, like an automaton that had been programmed to spout this message. If I press his stomach, thought Laurence, I’m sure he’d repeat his spiel, word for word in exactly the same way. Laurence knew that there was no way that he was going to find out what had actually happened behind those cream doors in the Intensive Care Unit and if he pushed any further, he would begin to raise suspicions. In a sense he believed that he had sussed out what the situation was, he just needed confirmation.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly and was about to turn and go when the door swung open and two men emerged. The leading figure was tall and lean with very short cropped hair and eyes that glittered fiercely even when his handsome face was in repose. He was accompanied by a sandy-haired man, chubbier and from his expression and gait a much more relaxed fellow. The uniformed officers stiffened almost to attention on their appearance.

  The tall man gazed at Laurence keenly. ‘A problem here?’ he asked one of the constables.

  ‘Not really, sir. This gentleman was wanting to visit his mother inside. I told him to come back this evening.’

  ‘’Sir’ looked more intently at Laurence. This is the last thing he wanted. His disguise was fine for casual observations, but not for the close eyed scrutiny of these two blokes, whom he assumed were police detectives.

  He turned slightly so that his face was away from the detective’s gaze. ‘Yes, sorry to be a nuisance. I’ll come back this evening.’

  He was about to walk away when the leading detective touched him on the arm.

  ‘What name was it, sir?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The name of your mother.’

  ‘It… it was Crowther. It’s Doris Crowther.’ He snatched the name from God knows where. ‘But I can come back this evening.’ Laurence made to take another step away but the bastard detective’s hand was still on his arm.

  ‘Wait a minute, Mr Crowther. I’ll see if we can help.’ The detective smiled. It was probably his normal smile but was without much warmth.

  Laurence could feel the perspiration building up under his collar and on his forehead. Tendrils of panic started to form around his heart. This isn’t how it was meant to be.

  The detective turned to one of the uniformed officers. ‘See if you can find a doctor or a nurse through there who can give this gentleman an update on his mother’s condition. Mrs Doris Crowther.’

  With a sharp nod the constable disappeared through the swing doors.

  ‘You’re very kind,’ said Laurence, apparently addressing his shoes, desperately trying to control his breathing.

  ‘That’s all right, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me…’ With that he walked off in the direction of the lift, followed by his partner.

  Laurence waited until they had disappeared from sight before he turned to the remaining constable.

  ‘I need a quick pee. Is there a loo nearby?’

  ‘Down the corridor on your left near the end.’

  ‘Thanks. I won’t be a tick.’

  He hurried off in the direction he had been given but carried on past the lavatory and through another set of double doors. Here he en
countered a porter carrying a pile of blankets.

  ‘Which way out, mate?’ he said rather more abruptly than he meant to.

  ‘The lift is back the way you came.’

  ‘Can’t stand lifts. I get a bit panicky. Prefer stairs.’

  ‘Just on here at the end. Through that green door.’

  ‘Ta, mate.’

  Some minutes later to his great relief, Laurence found himself in the hospital foyer once more. Keeping an eye out for the two detectives he made his way to the gent’s lavatory and, locking himself in a cubicle, he discarded most of his disguise. Now having been seen in close up by four coppers and several other hospital staff he thought it best to return to his anonymous self. He slipped the cap into his coat pocket, wiped the rouge from his cheeks and washed his face. Then he whipped off the tie and clapped on a pair of spectacles to alter his appearance further. He could do nothing about the clothes, but with floppy hair, an open necked shirt and a more assured gait, he was sure he looked like a different person from the one he’d been impersonating. Checking his appearance in the mirror, he was not surprised to see that the face which looked back at him was somewhat pale and disturbed.

  Meanwhile up at the Intensive Care Unit, the uniformed officer had returned from the ward to his colleague on duty at the door. He wore a puzzled expression. ‘Where is that guy who wanted to see Mrs Crowther?’

  ‘He’s gone for a slash. Said he’d only be a few minutes.’

  ‘Well, there isn’t a Mrs Crowther in there. There’s only two patients left in the ward now. An old bloke called Forsdyke and an Indian lady.’

  ‘That’s funny.’

  ‘Yeah. Very funny. I’ve a sneaking feeling that we won’t see Mr Crowther again. I reckon I’d better let Snow know about this.’

  On leaving the hospital, Laurence walked for some time in the direction of the town centre some two miles away. He moved slowly as though a figure caught in slow motion contrasting with the real world around him: the pedestrians who shouldered past in a hurry and the traffic that whizzed by him on the road. He was deep in thought, oblivious of his surroundings, trying to make some sense of the whole Matt Wilkinson/Ronnie Fraser farrago. He had dragged his mind back to the night of the killings and followed the scenario from there. In cold, sober broad daylight he saw that the whole thing was crazy. It was surreal, foolish and pointless. Like his whole life. Suddenly his entire existence seemed like a dream, a warped illusion, and he desperately wanted to wake up or, failing that, stop dreaming altogether. A deep rumble behind him temporarily attracted his attention and looking back he saw a large juggernaut rattling and juddering down the highway at speed – far faster than it should have been on such a road. There was an anonymous shadow up high up in the driving seat behind the shiny windscreen. For a fleeting second Laurence considered stepping out in front of it. That would solve his problems all right. Oblivion in an instant. He stared at the massive radiator grille and the giant throbbing tyres on the monster machine which was fast approaching. That would make light work of his body, his skull cracking like a bird’s egg.

  All he had to do was step out.

  The thing rumbled nearer.

  Just, step out.

  He moved to the edge of the pavement and took a deep breath.

  And then the juggernaut thundered by with a mind-numbing roar, creating a spiral of dust and grit which enveloped him in a thin grey shroud. He coughed and spluttered for a moment and then with his handkerchief wiped the smuts from his face and eyes. With a tight grin he resumed his journey.

  On reaching the outskirts of town, he discovered a small dingy pub which had just opened its doors for the lunchtime trade.

  Sitting in the gloom, with a pint of bitter which he really did not want, Laurence tried hard to martial his thoughts into sensible and practical channels, casting all fanciful and melodramatic thoughts of suicide aside. From nowhere came some words from Shakespeare’s Macbeth, a play he’d appeared in twice but only as minor characters. The lines were apposite and helped to point the way:

  ‘I am in blood

  Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more,

  Returning were as tedious as going o’er.’

  He took a sip of his beer and smiled. It looks like it is time, he told himself with a mixture of sadness and relief, it looks like it is time to make the last few moves in this grand game that I have been playing. This grand game of my own devising. I have been the puppet master all along and now I think it is the moment to start cutting the strings.

  The landlord at the bar, lonely for customers, found his thoughts interrupted by the sound of laughter. He gazed over at the youngish chap in glasses sitting in the shadows at the far corner of the room and saw that he was chuckling heartily to himself. Crikey, we get all sorts of nutters in here, he thought wryly as he absentmindedly wiped down the bar counter with a tea towel.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘Right, get this picture out to the press and the TV companies pronto, please. Someone is bound to recognise him, surely. And we’ve got the fingerprints on the weapon he used to bash Constable Carmichael on the head. That should act as a clincher. With a bit of luck, we could have an arrest on our hands within the next twenty four hours.’ Snow slumped back in his desk chair and smiled. It was a rare expression and it didn’t last long.

  Sergeant Fellows could see that his boss was in an unusually buoyant mood and this puzzled him slightly. He knew that it had been a productive morning with Nurse Watkins identifying one of the sketches, but this did come on the top of another killing. Three men had died now and this fact did not seem to affect Snow at all. He was a strange fellow. As one of his colleagues Sergeant Bradley had observed once, Snow was an appropriate name for him. He was like the snow in the carol: ‘deep and crisp and even’. You could never tell what was really going on beneath the surface. Smooth, cold and unfathomable was DI Snow. That, thought Fellows, is probably what made him a good copper.

  ‘I’ll see to it right away,’ the sergeant said, snatching up a copy of the sketch and heading for the door.

  ‘Oh, Bob. Get me a spare photocopy too, would you? I’d like to have the blighter to hand.’

  ‘Will do,’ came the reply as the door closed, leaving Snow alone.

  He stroked his chin thoughtfully. He was aware that he shouldn’t get his hopes up high, but he desperately wanted to bring this case to a swift conclusion and if they could track down the fellow in the sketch it was very likely that this could happen. There were his accomplices to track down, of course, but it often followed that once you had one rat caught in the trap, the others were usually easier to nab.

  However, it was the nature of the crime and the motive behind it that disturbed Snow more than he liked to admit. It brought to the surface the secret of his own sexuality, a sexuality which he hoped he had managed to subdue and imprison deep within his consciousness. He knew he lived a lie and it was one he accepted. It was part of him now. He was determined not to let old memories and feelings rise up and contaminate his well-ordered life. The little worrying niggle at the back of his mind was the thought that someone digging deep into Matt Wilkinson’s history might well discover his connection with the dead man. Although it was years ago since he’d had any contact with him, the fact still remained. And now it was like an albatross around his neck… until the case was closed at least.

  He hoped.

  Exposure would be disastrous.

  Snow shut down this idea instantly. It was time to channel his thoughts into other directions. But first a brew. He was just about to move when the phone rang on his desk.

  With practised ease he snatched up the receiver. ‘Snow,’ he said sharply.

  ‘It’s PC Yeats here, sir. I was on duty this morning at the hospital outside Intensive Care when you came to the crime scene.’

  ‘What is it, Yeats?’

  ‘It’s that bloke, sir. The one who turned up to see his mother.’

  ‘Crowther – sports jacket and c
ords. Yes, I remember.’

  ‘Well, sir, there weren’t no Mrs Crowther in Intensive Care and there hasn’t been anyone of that name in there for ages – eighteen months at least. And after you went, the bloke disappeared.’

  ‘In a puff of smoke?’

  ‘When I went into the ward to see if I could find out about this Mrs Crowther, he went off for a pee and never came back. It all seemed a bit funny, bit suspicious to me, sir. I just thought you ought to know.’

  ‘Yes, you were right. It may be something and nothing… and then again… Thank you Constable. If you find out any more information, let me know.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Snow replaced the receiver and stroked his chin again. Curious, he thought, and tried to bring to his mind’s eye an image of this mysterious Mr Crowther. He remembered a Harris Tweed-type sports coat and a flat cap. The face… yes the face was constantly being turned away from him: but Snow had an automatic filing system in place for such encounters. Without thinking, he stored details away. That face. Yes. Moustache, ruddy cheeks. A countryman – or someone pretending to be a countryman. But it was a good performance. Well, it had convinced him at the time. Facts had shown that the man obviously wasn’t who he said he was and that certainly made him a suspicious character. Where is he now? Snow sighed. Needle in a haystack time again. He needed a coffee.