Innocent Blood (2 page)

Gradually the tears subsided and a strange serenity claimed her. It was time. Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, to clear her vision, with calm deliberation she clambered on top of the bridge wall. For a moment she teetered there, a gentle smile touching her tear-stained features. She was no longer in pain. She was no longer afraid. The smile broadened as she let herself fall.

‘Are you sure he’s in there?’ DS Bob Fellows asked softly.

DI Paul Snow’s reply was a curt nod. It was, thought Fellows, typical of his boss, a brief, stoical, no-nonsense response given in a minimal fashion. Snow was not known for his loquaciousness.

‘What now?’

‘Well, back-up is on the way. I don’t think we should waste time. Let’s pay a call.’

‘Really?’

Snow repeated the nod. ‘Come on.’

They crossed the cobbled street and approached the row of terraced houses. These ancient properties had all seen better days but the one with the green door looked particularly worse for wear. The window frames were rotting and the hardboard facing on the door was buckled with age and damp.

Snow knocked hard on it and they waited.

Eventually they heard a sound within. In time the door opened a crack and a man’s face peered out. As soon as he saw Snow and Fellows, the man attempted to slam the door shut, but Snow was too quick for him and with force he shouldered it open. With a curse, the man stumbled backwards into the dimly lit hallway. Snow followed him in and saw that he had a weapon in his right hand. It looked like an ordinary carving knife, no doubt snatched up in haste from the kitchen table. With a gruff cry the man lunged forward, with the knife sweeping in a tight arc, but Snow sidestepped the blow. With a snarl of disappointment, the man turned rapidly on his heel to make a run for it but Snow leapt forward and grabbed his shirt collar and hauled him backwards.

‘John Andrew Beaumont, I am arresting you …’

The man had turned and aimed the knife at the policeman once more. Snow released his grip and stepped back to avoid the blade again, which this time missed his face by inches.

‘Fuck you, copper,’ snarled Beaumont, and once more he turned to escape down the hall. Again Snow leapt forward and hauled him back but this time he was not so gentle. Before Beaumont was able to raise the knife, Snow swung him round and thumped him hard in the solar plexus. With a muffled groan, he dropped the knife and his body folded as he slumped to the floor.

‘Get the cuffs on him, Bob,’ said Snow easily. ‘Now, as I was saying, John Andrew Beaumont, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Julia Beaumont and her sister Andrea. Anything you say …’

Later that evening Snow sat with Fellows drinking coffee in his office.

‘It’s a good feeling to know that Beaumont is locked up, safely stowed away in the cells. Crazy man,’ observed Fellows.

Snow peered over the top of his mug. ‘No, he’s not crazy. Most murderers aren’t crazy. They’re cunning and angry and driven.’

‘What drives ’em, eh?’

‘Ah, you’ll need a medic to explain that. It’s just a barrier that breaks down or a broken fence that tempts you to wander into a prohibited area. Most folk would ignore the broken fence, but some, some are tempted to pass through it. To trespass. It’s greed, fury, self-protection or simply pleasure that prompts them to cross the line, but once they’ve done it, they can’t find their way back.’

‘Like Beaumont.’

‘Like Beaumont. And others …’ he said, almost to himself.

‘Well, I still say they’re crazy.’

Snow gave a deep sigh. ‘Yes … I suppose you could be right.’

He sat quietly, his emotions firmly in check as he turned the pages of the small photograph album. It was a mechanical procedure, one that he had carried out at regular intervals in the past few weeks. It provided him with comfort and a focus, and in a strange way, it gave him thinking time. He desperately needed thinking time. Now that his life was in ruins, he had to decide what to do. The landscape of his existence had been scarred beyond recognition – nothing would be the same again – and he was unsure how he was to survive. Or if he wanted to survive.

He gazed down at the black and white photographs, unmoved now by the memories they evoked. When he had first started looking at the pictures, he had not been able to focus on them because of his tears. But they had dried up. Now there were no tears, no ache in the stomach, just a void. But he was conscious that slowly but surely something was creeping in to fill that void.

It was anger.

He welcomed it and allowed it to build within him, fuelled by whisky, until a plan, a dark and audacious plan, began to form in his mind. He kept running it like a reel of film through his mind over and over again. Each time it started from the beginning, presenting him with more details and greater clarity. The plan was being honed and polished and it was a plan that gave him a purpose again. He knew that it wouldn’t give him pleasure, but it would provide him with a kind of satisfaction and a sense of justice.

The first thing he had to do was cut all ties with his past. That was easily done. He thought with an ironic grin that in many ways his past had cut its ties with him. There was only his job that kept him in the real world. He had no family and no strong friendships. He was on leave at present due to his bereavement – his double bereavement – and so it would be an easy task to hand in his resignation. He would tell them he intended to move away, to start afresh where the memories wouldn’t haunt him. Then he would disappear.

Once that had been achieved, he could start. He ran the film again in his mind and once again even greater clarity and sharper details were observed. A tight grin settled on his features. It was going to work.

The woodland was still. There was no birdsong and not a leaf, not a blade of grass moved in the late afternoon heat.

‘This way,’ said Martin, almost dragging Brenda over the crumbling wall that ran around the perimeter of the wood. He was eager and excited and so was she, but there was apprehension and a certain amount of guilt mixed up with her enthusiasm. She was all in favour of the venture but she had never done anything like this before. What was exciting was also rather frightening. Committing adultery was one thing, but having sex outside, in the open air, in a place where anyone could come upon you … well, it might be daring and erotic but it was both dangerous and a bit sordid, too. It had appealed to her when they had discussed it in the pub but now that it was about to happen she was beginning to have second thoughts.

She just wished that Martin had booked them into a hotel somewhere. Clean sheets, a soft bed and, above all, privacy. However, she knew this was impractical. They couldn’t go to a place in Huddersfield – that was too dicey – and to travel further afield and pay for a room would take time and cost money. Money that she didn’t have and neither did her out-of-work paramour.

‘Down here, love. Mind how you go,’ Martin beamed, his eyes wide with excitement as he led her down a rough path into a denser part of the wood. It began to grow dark as the foliage thickened above them, creating a gloomy umbrella canopy pierced only occasionally by thin shafts of sunlight. It struck Brenda that he seemed to know the route particularly well. Maybe she wasn’t the first girl he’d taken down here. First girl? She almost laughed out loud at that description of herself. Girl? She was pushing forty, had a paunch like a Sumo wrestler and an ungainly lug of a teenage son at home – as well as that other ungainly lug, her bloody husband. No doubt at this very moment he’d be slumped in front of the telly with a few cans of lager on the floor by his chair.

‘Not far now,’ Martin was saying, virtually pulling her along behind him.

The image of Barry, her lazy slob of a husband, which had flashed into her mind suddenly made everything seem all right. She smiled. ‘Good, lover boy,’ she said cheerfully. What the hell, she thought, all cares suddenly evaporating, she was damn well going to enjoy herself. When was the last time a man had paid any attention to her, the last time that she’d had sex when the heaving blob on top of her was sober and loving? Time was running out on her life and she was determined to grab what pleasure she could, however furtive, however sordid; however dangerous. Martin was hardly love’s young dream with his short, stocky build and boxer’s face but there was something about him that she found attractive and somehow endearing. His simplicity and honesty were rare commodities and he was kind to her. That counted for a lot.

At length they emerged into a clearing where thin strands of sunlight dappled the ground. Gazing up, she caught glimpses of blue sky through the tracery of branches. It was decorated at intervals by drifting white clouds. It was quite beautiful and Brenda forgot all her ideas about this venture being sordid. This place was beautiful, romantic, like a Hollywood movie.

Martin let go of her hand and raced ahead of her. Dropping his holdall at the base of a large oak tree, he pulled out a large grey blanket and spread it on the ground. As he did so, he looked up and grinned.

‘Come on, girl,’ he cried, and sitting down with a bump on the blanket, he beckoned her to join him.

Brenda was to discover that Martin was not a man for foreplay. With him there was no hanging about. There was a job to be done and he was keen to get on with it right away. She had hardly lowered herself on to the blanket before he was fondling her breasts.

‘You’re an eager boy, aren’t you?’ she said with mock reproval.

‘You know I’m mad about you, Bren,’ he replied, his left hand making its way up her skirt.

She smiled and lay back. She was happy to let him have his way with her. At least he was keen and he was a decent enough chap.

She felt his fingers enter her and she couldn’t help herself: she gave a little chuckle. When, she thought, had she felt as desired as this? She couldn’t honestly remember. Perhaps, never.

Sadly for Brenda it was all over in a matter of minutes. Poor old Martin was too excited. Once he’d achieved his erection, he could barely contain himself. A phrase her mother always used when they were coming back from their summer holidays when Brenda was a child suddenly came to mind: ‘Well, it was nice while it lasted,’ she’d say with a sigh. And it was. Brenda smiled and thought warm thoughts about Martin. It
was nice while it lasted.

‘Fancy a fag?’ he said, struggling back into his trousers.

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m fine.’ She was glowing and feeling good. She needed no nicotine rush. She gave Martin a kiss on the cheek and clambered to her feet and adjusted her clothing. She felt like dancing, swirling around, kicking up leaves like they did in the old movies. She wasn’t stupid enough to think that it was love – but at least it was passion of a sort. That was something she thought she’d seen the last of in her life. She wandered dreamily to the far end of the clearing.

‘Careful!’ Martin’s voice echoed eerily in the stillness. She turned towards him with a frown of puzzlement.

‘The ground drops away down there. I don’t want you tumbling into the stream at the bottom.’

She grinned. ‘OK,’ she said, although she wanted to reply that she was quite capable of looking after herself. Martin was right, though: the ground did fall away sharply and suddenly into a narrow ravine. She gazed down and at the bottom she glimpsed the silver trail of a small meandering stream. In the quiet of the wood, she could hear the gentle rippling of its waters soft on the ear. It was all quite beautiful. It struck her that this serene place would have hardly changed in hundreds of years and yet less than a mile away there was that ferocious clamour and bustle of the twentieth century. 1985 was making its noisy presence felt. At certain sections the sunlight which filtered through the foliage touched the stream, gilding it, transforming it into a bright saffron ribbon. It made Brenda smile.

As her eyes traced the route of the stream, her smile faded and her mouth opened gently. At first she was puzzled and uncertain. Then the cold shaft of apprehension and horror pierced her heart. Gingerly, she took a step forward, her high heels sinking into the soft damp earth, and, screwing up her eyes, peered at one certain section of the stream. She stared hard, frozen to the spot. Surely she was imagining it.

‘What are you doing?’ Martin had come up behind her and although his query was spoken softly and couched in a pleasant tone, his close proximity shocked her and she stumbled forward, almost losing her balance.

‘Whoa, lady, I told you to be careful,’ he said, grabbing her arms and pulling her backwards on to slightly firmer ground.

‘Martin,’ she murmured, a tremble in her voice. ‘Down there.’ She pointed towards the stream. ‘Look.’

‘What you on about?’

‘Look,’ she repeated with some urgency.

He did look and although he said nothing she could tell from his hardened features that he had seen it too.

Eventually Brenda mouthed the thought that was in both their minds.

‘Is she dead?’

Martin shook his head rapidly as though to dismiss the matter. ‘It’s just a bunch of old clothes,’ he said, but there was no conviction in his voice.

‘It’s not,’ she said. ‘It’s … it’s a body.’

‘Well, even if it is, it’s got nothing to do with us.’

Brenda stared at him in shocked disbelief. ‘What are you talking about? We can’t just leave it there. Ignore it.’

‘We can. We must.’

‘You can. I can’t,’ she said. ‘They might be alive. I’m going down there.’ She moved further to the edge of the slope.

‘Don’t be so daft. You’ll hurt yourself.’

‘We’ve got to go down, Martin.’

He groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. He knew she was right but he didn’t want to do it. Whatever the consequences it meant trouble. The police. People would find out. His wife would find out. Find out what he was doing with a woman in the woods. All hell would break loose.

Brenda tugged his arm. ‘Look, over there, there’s a bit of a track going down. It’s steep but I reckon we could make it.’