‘In the meantime, I think I’ll take myself out to Marshall’s house again. Another visit might very well reveal a little more.’
‘You going on your own, sir?’
‘I think it would be best.’
There is something about a house in which a murder has taken place that announces itself to the sensitive. Or at least that’s what Snow thought. As he let himself inside Alex Marshall’s neat little townhouse, he could still smell the blood and the faint aroma of dead body. There was a special kind of silence, too, which was strange and unique. He was tempted to make a noise to break that suffocating blanket of quiet, but something prevented him. It would be like shouting in church, he thought.
Slowly he moved into the sitting room. Alex Marshall’s’ corpse was gone now, of course, but his dried blood remained spattered in a grotesque pattern on the sofa and light coloured carpet. He stood by the spot where the body had been and let his eyes scan the room. Could there be anything here that would provide some clue, some illumination on the case? The SOCOs had already scrutinised the whole house so there would be nothing obvious and indeed, probably nothing at all. Still he had to try.
Room by room he explored and examined. Snow was convinced that Marshall’s murderer was known to him. It may be that he had visited the house before. They certainly had been in touch with each other. Somewhere there must be an address or telephone number… Unless, of course, they had just been memorised for safety reasons. If the only repository was a dead man’s brain then there was no way of retrieving them.
Snow spent an hour in the house. A fruitless hour. While he was in the bedroom, he glanced out of the window and saw a young man gazing up in fascination at the house. One of the local rubber neckers, he thought at first, come to take a gander at the ‘murder house’. Even properties gain a kind of ghoulish celebrity when a horrible crime had taken place there. Snow didn’t give him another thought until he returned to the living room some five minutes later and observed that the man was still there, sitting on the garden wall, staring at the house. He went to the door and as he appeared on the threshold, the young man stood up, turned abruptly on his heel and began to move away.
‘Just a minute, please,’ Snow called out to him. ‘Just wait a minute.’
The man hesitated, half turning to look at Snow who was advancing on him quite quickly.
‘I’m a police officer,’ he said, extracting his warrant card and flashing before the youth. ‘I’d just like to have a word.’
The man’s face paled. He looked nervous and tense, his eyes twitching as though he was about to do a runner.
‘I just wanted to know why you were so interested in this house,’ Snow said gently.
There was a pause, fear and uncertainty registering on the young man’s face. He coughed awkwardly and then he spoke. ‘I… I used to live here.’
‘Before the present owner?’
The man hesitated again for a moment before replying. ‘No… No, I used to share with Alex.’
‘I see.’ Bonus time, thought Snow. ‘When was this?’
‘Up until to a few months ago.’
‘Why did you leave?’
He shifted awkwardly, unsure how to phrase his answer. ‘We had a falling out. It just wasn’t working.’
‘What wasn’t working? The relationship?’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘You could say that.’
‘Look, I need to talk to you. I’m investigating Alex’s murder and I’m sure you can help me.’
‘How? I haven’t seen him for a couple of months.’
‘You can tell me about him. It’ll be an informal chat. Nothing to get worried about. Nothing official.’
It was a lie. Snow knew that if this fellow came up with the slightest fragment of information that could help the case he would have to log it and the man would be called in to make a formal statement. ‘How about coming inside and having a brief chat?’
The man shook his head vigorously. ‘No. No. You’ll not get me in there. It’s filled with too many memories for me. There’s a café a couple of streets away. We could go there.’
‘Right you are.’
By the time they had driven to Sue’s Café, Snow had established that the man’s name was John and had deduced that he and Alex had been lovers. In the car he had begun to ask Snow how his friend had died, but the question had hardly left his lips before he added, ‘No, don’t tell me, I really don’t want to know. It’s bad enough that poor Alex is dead without being told the gory details. I will have nightmares enough. We didn’t part on the best of terms but he was a special person in my life and I have good memories of him. I don’t want them blighted more than they are.’
Sue’s Café was modest little affair with affectations above its calling for a small establishment in the suburbs. There were a group of round tables with white cloths and a little vase of flowers on each one. When Snow and John entered there were just two other customers, an elderly couple having tea and cakes.
‘Well, the most obvious question,’ said Snow once they were seated and had acquired a pot of Earl Grey for two, ‘is can you think why anyone should want to kill Alex?’
John shook his head. ‘No. It’s all a mystery to me.’ He turned away and gave a little cough. Snow could tell that he was upset. He would have to treat this fellow very gently if he were to elicit anything from him that would be of use.
‘Tell me why you left.’
‘It was rather strange in a way. We always bickered a bit but it got much worse after that night.’
‘That night?’
John took a deep breath before responding. ‘We used to go to the Starlight Club most Saturdays and one night we had a bit of a tiff and I left early. Alex didn’t get back until the next morning. It was daylight when he walked in. He was in a right state. I think he had been beaten up or something. His clothes were a mess and he looked like he’d been crying. He was quite strange and emotional but he wouldn’t talk about what had happened. He just clammed up. From then on he changed. His personality. I mean. He behaved oddly with me and he… he didn’t like to be touched or anything. It was as though whatever happened that night had taken part of him away. Whatever went on … it seemed to haunt him. I tried to prise it out of him several times… but nothing. Suddenly it was like living with a stranger. As a result we just drifted apart. I realised it was time for me to move on – and so I did. It was a pity because he was a nice bloke and I was very fond of him. And now he’s dead.’
‘Does the name Matt Wilkinson mean anything to you?’
John didn’t need to think about this one. He shook his head. The response was so immediate and easy that Snow knew that he was telling the truth.
‘What about Alex’s other friends? I believe there were two other men that he was friendly with.’
‘To be honest, Alex was a bit of a loner. He had no family and apart from me, I don’t think there was anyone else close in his life… except perhaps the midnight caller.’
Snow leaned forward with interest. ‘And who was he?’
‘I don’t know. I used to refer to him as the midnight caller – I assume it was a him – because he would ring late at night. The calls would be brief and Alex made sure they were taken in private. At first I used to joke about them, saying that he’d found another boyfriend. He denied it, but he wouldn’t tell me who was on the other end of the line. I accepted this. We all have private parts of our lives that we want to keep to ourselves. Anyway, I eventually lost interest, especially towards the end. But there was a time when I was determined to ring the chap up and ask him who he was.’
‘And how could you do that?’ said Snow, hardly containing his excitement.
For the first time since they’d met, John smiled. ‘’Cause I managed to get the number, didn’t I?’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Alex always used to doodle on a note pad when he was on the phone. Very late one night – well, it was more like early morning – he
had one of these calls. When he’d finished he put the phone down and went to the small bedroom for a few minutes before coming back to the phone and I could hear him dialling back.’
‘Did you hear what he was saying?’
‘No. He always spoke in whispers. Anyway, later on that night, I got up for a pee and then I went downstairs to get a glass of water because my throat was very dry. Too much red wine at dinner no doubt. Out of curiosity, I looked at the note pad and I saw that as well as a few abstract squiggles, there was a phone number there. My friend had been very careless. He’d been on the red wine, too. So I made a note of the number but left the original in place. And sure enough by the time I came down in the morning that page of the notebook had gone.’
‘What did you do about the number?’
John shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
‘Weren’t you tempted to ring it?’
‘I suppose I was to begin with but then I reckoned if Alex was so desperate to keep this a secret, then let him. By this time his behaviour in general was beginning to exasperate me. I knew that a parting of the ways was on the cards and ringing up a mysterious person was not going to change things.’
‘Did you think it was another lover?’
‘Not really, I think there would have been other signs if that was the case. It’s funny I suppose that once I’d got hold the number all my curiosity ceased. I knew that I could ring if I wanted to – but I didn’t want to.’ He gave a gentle shrug.
‘Do you still have the number?’
John paused for a moment and gazed at Snow directly in the eyes. ‘Actually, I do. Initially I put it in my wallet inside my driving licence and I never bothered to take it out again.’
‘I think you’d better let me have that number now. It could be vital to our enquiries.’
THIRTY-FOUR
Laurence felt that his journey back to London was spent in some strange state of suspended emotion. He functioned fairly efficiently on a practical level – buying his train ticket, finding a seat, ordering food from the buffet bar – but he felt nothing. It was as though his mind had gone into hibernation.
Immediately following the death of Russell, he had undergone a ferocious rush of conflicting feelings from regret to elation. Regret that after all this time the Great Game was finally over; and elation for the same reason. There was little room for sadness; it was an emotion that he never fully comprehended. All his life he hadn’t got as close to anyone as he had done with Russell, but this had been a deliberate decision, practical, planned and engineered. There had been nothing sentimental about it. It was, to his intents and purposes, an artificial pairing. He didn’t do intimate. He knew how that could very easily fuck you up. Even at the relaxed moments in his friendship with Russell there had been a controlling Machiavellian edge that always took precedence in his dealings with him. He never lost sight of the grand plan. However, Laurence did accept that in being closely associated with someone over a period of years, however calculated the reason, one couldn’t help developing a liking and a fondness for that individual. He’d read of how kidnap victims had grown to care for their captors. He supposed that it was a little bit like that with him and Russell.
However, he had slept soundly that night in a cheap B & B in Durham and by the time he had boarded the train for his journey south, he had contained any disturbing thoughts and feelings and was self-immunised against deep contemplations and emotion. He knew that in time and certainly in drink he would return to the events of the last few days when he had killed his two comrades of many years in cold blood, but for now, enough was enough.
When he arrived in London and strode out of Kings Cross Station into the autumn sunshine, he felt happy and content. All shadows had been banished. There were important things to consider: the future. How was he going to proceed with his life from now on and when would the next killing take place?
On reaching his little flat in Chiswick, he could hear his phone trilling as he made his way up the stairs. Flinging open the door, he dropped his bags and snatched up the receiver as it was making its dying call.
‘Hello,’ he said abruptly and rather breathlessly.
‘My God, at last,’ said an urbane, affected voice at the other end. ‘The wanderer returns. Where the hell have you been?’
Laurence recognised the caller immediately. It was his agent, Gavin Swan.
‘Hello Gavin. And how are you?’ replied Laurence smoothly with a smile. It was good to hear a friendly voice from the real world again.
‘I’ve been calling you for two bloody days, you terrible man.’
‘Well, I’m here now. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s more a case of what I’ve done for you.’
‘Ah, work. What shitty part in what crumbling theatre have you got for me now?’
‘The gratitude of the fellow! Oh, ye of little faith. I’ve got you a telly, darling.’
Now Laurence was really interested. ‘Tell me more.’
‘It’s in a soap, but it’s a decent part. Not a regular character but guaranteed five episodes – maybe more. You play a dodgy estate agent who shows this girl around a house and tries to have it off with her.’
‘Typecasting then?’
Gavin chuckled.
‘What’s the soap?’
‘It’s Emmerdale Farm. They shoot it up in Yorkshire. It’ll mean popping up to Leeds for a week or two…’
Laurence’s heart sank. Bloody Yorkshire. He’d just come from bloody Yorkshire and he didn’t want to see the place again in a long while.
‘I’m not sure…’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I don’t really want to traipse all the way up to the land of pork pies, mushy peas and whippets for a cough and a spit.’
‘You ungrateful bastard! I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It’s not a cough and a spit. It’s a nicely written part with potential and decent money. This is your big chance, Larry my boy. Make a good impression and who knows where it may lead. I warn you – turn it down at your peril. I’m certainly not going work my arse off for you in future if you are going to be so fucking fickle…’
Gavin was really angry now and his hot words had their desired effect. Reluctantly Laurence squashed his reservations. Gavin was right. Accepting this part could take him down new and exciting roads. If only it wasn’t up in Yorkshire.
‘Sorry. I’m a little tired. Of course, I’ll do the part.’
‘I should bloody well hope so.’ Gavin’s anger had not yet fully subsided. ‘There are some actors who’d give their eye teeth to get a part in a soap.’
‘Yes, of course. Me, too. Thank you.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Read throughs begin at Yorkshire TV next Tuesday. Filming should start on Friday.’
‘That’s great,’ said Laurence with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
‘Good. I’ll put the contract and other details in the post. OK.’
‘Yeah. Thanks Gavin. This is good news. Really good news.’
‘You’d better believe it. Telly is where the money is, darling. You don’t want to end up playing in revivals of old Agatha Christie stinkers as the murderer do you?’
‘No,’ said Laurence with a grim smile.
‘You look the bee’s knees in that.’ The shop assistant fluttered around him like a mother hen.
Michael Armitage had to agree. He did look like the bee’s knees – whatever that really meant – in the leather jacket he had tried on. It was light tan, the colour of caramel, and had the fine, smooth, shiny texture of a baby’s bottom, not like the tough low grade stuff you got on the coats in the market. This was proper leather. He gazed admiringly at himself in the shop mirror and beamed. The jacket, blouson in style, made him look even bulkier than he was already, but this pleased him. His kind of women liked a bloke with a bit of meat on them.
‘It is expensive,’ the assistant was saying, ‘but one has to pay for quality. It is striking but sophisticated at the same t
ime. It really suits you.’
My God, thought Armitage, he was working overtime on making a sale. It wasn’t necessary. He was determined to have the jacket.
‘How much is it?’
‘’Three hundred and fifty pounds,’ came the answer. It was swift and casual to underline the insignificance of such an amount to the customers of this exclusive emporium.
Armitage smiled sweetly at the little man. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘A wise choice, sir. How will you be paying?’
‘Cash,’ said Armitage, his smile broadening.
THIRTY-FIVE
Jack Turner called to the dog in vain. It took no notice of him as it lolloped off into the undergrowth. It was all very well Margaret, his wife, doting on the black Labrador puppy, but he was the poor sod who had to take it out for walks and try to make the thing obey him. He pushed his way down the narrow woodland path in pursuit of the hound until he came out into a clearing, and there before him was a large pond, murky and muddy. The dog was on the water’s edge gazing at it with great curiosity.
‘You’re not to go in there,’ cried Turner racing towards the dog. Seeing his master advancing on him at speed and thinking this was part of the walkies game, the dog splashed into the water with enthusiasm and swam out towards the middle of the pond.
Turner groaned out loud in despair. How was he going to get the mutt to come back? He threw his head to the heavens in frustration but when he looked again he saw that the dog had found something in the water and was growling and snapping at it. Eventually, the dog grabbed something from just below the surface and dragged it up into the air. Jack Turner couldn’t believe his eyes. It was the sleeve of a jacket but what chilled him to the bone was the sight of the livid white human hand dangling from the end.
Snow knew that there came a time in every investigation when things seem to fall into a torpor. After the initial flurry of activity and responses from the public, there was a dead period where everything hangs fire waiting for the big breakthrough. If it ever came.
Brothers in Blood Page 19
