Innocent Blood (22 page)

Once Elizabeth had escaped from her bedroom prison, as she thought of it, her bravado deserted her. It was as though she had suddenly realised the full, fierce reality of her desperate situation. She stood still in the darkness outside the bedroom, wondering what to do next. There were loud noises coming from the room at the far end of the corridor. It sounded as though someone was having a violent argument: voices were raised, sharp cries reverberated in the air and there was the crashing of furniture.

Curiosity got the better of her caution and she tiptoed down the corridor; with some trepidation she opened the door a fraction and peered through the crack into the room beyond. She saw two men fighting, growling and roaring at each other. One of them was the blond man she knew. The policeman with the big nose. The man who had kidnapped her. The one who had lied and told her that her mother was ill in hospital.

He was a bad man.

To her chagrin, this bad man seemed to be winning the fight. She didn’t know who the other person was. She couldn’t see his face properly, but she assumed, if he was being attacked by Mr Big Nose, he must be the goody in the situation. Instinctively she knew she had to save him. He might be able to help her to escape. If Mr Big Nose won, he would capture her again. This terrible thought prompted her action.

She moved quietly into the room while the two men continued to tussle with each other. They crashed to the ground, Mr Big Nose landing on top of the other. He gave a strange gurgling cry and bellowed, ‘I’m sticking to my plan!’

She saw to her horror that Mr Big Nose had his large hands around the other man’s throat and was throttling him to death. The victim’s face had gone a bright pink and the eyes began to flicker and close. She had to stop him. She had to stop him killing that man. In wild desperation, she gazed around and her eyes lit upon a whisky bottle on the sideboard. She rushed forward and snatched it up.

Her movement caught Bird’s attention and for a brief moment he froze and turned his head in the girl’s direction. He saw her advancing towards him with the bottle raised.

‘You,’ he cried, before the first blow was struck. It came down hard against his temple and knocked him forward so that he fell limply on to the man on the floor.

Snow was only vaguely aware of what was happening now. Bird’s fingers loosened around his neck and he was able to gasp for air. As Snow looked up, he saw a trickle of blood appear at the side of Bird’s head and run through the fine blond hairs on to his face.

The sight of the shiny red blood somehow seemed to enrage the girl. It brought her visions of the man leering over her when she had been imprisoned in that bedroom. He meant to harm her. She knew that instinctively. Now it was her chance to harm him. She hit him again.

And again.

Snow was now able to disentangle himself from Bird’s limp embrace and, pulling himself up into a sitting position, he quickly assessed the situation. The girl had gone wild as if in some sort of fit, raining a series of blows upon the now unconscious Bird.

‘Stop it!’ Snow’s voice emerged croaky and faint. He tried again and this time he was able to increase the volume. ‘Please, stop it. Put the bottle down,’ he cried. But his words had no effect. Elizabeth did not seem to hear him. It was as though she was now in a world of her own. She brought the bottle crashing down on Bird’s skull yet again.

Snow, his hands still bound, struggled to pull himself forward towards her. ‘No, no. Stop it.’ But the girl, her eyes glazed and her mouth set in a fanatical rictus grin, was now possessed and without seeming to see clearly she brought the bottle down once more. This time it connected with the side of Snow’s head instead. He gave out a yelp of pain and the shock blocked his vision with a fierce white light. When the mist cleared, he saw the bottle descend once more. There was nothing he could do to avoid the blow. He was briefly aware of the violent pain it brought him before he blacked out completely.

A strange rustling noise came to his ears but what was causing it he couldn’t say. That was partly because he was in darkness. But he liked being in darkness. It was safe and secure here. Something told him that in the light there would be more pain – more pain than he was feeling now. The pain that made him feel as though his head was on fire or people were drilling holes his brain. No, he thought, I’ll stay in the darkness. I won’t open my eyes. I’ll just go back to sleep. I’ll be safe here.

And as he drifted off to sleep once more, the rustling sound faded.

Without planning it, or giving it any thought, instinctively he opened his eyes. If he had had chance to consider this action, he would have kept them shut, remained in the security of the dark. But his body had taken the decision to bring him back.

The eyelids fluttered, allowing the light in slowly. It was painful at first, making his eyes water, which helped to increase his blurred vision. He took several deep breaths as he tried to make sense of it all. Where was he? Who was he and what was happening to him? And why did his head hurt so?

Soon, he was able to determine that he was lying in a bed. A very soft and comfortable bed with smooth sheets that rustled at his slightest movement. He gazed above him at the ceiling. It was one he did not recognise. It was plain white with a few fine, spidery cracks in it and a hanging light fitting with a long fluorescent tube. Now, he thought, he must be brave and pull himself up in the bed and try to see where he was. But he couldn’t, he was too weak.

Suddenly a woman’s face appeared close to his. So close that he could see the pores and touches of make-up on her cheeks. Her face somehow seemed very large. The red lips – which parted in a gentle smile – seemed like those of a giant. He blinked to reassess this vision.

‘So you’ve decided to come back and join us.’ The giant lips moved, forming these words.

He could not respond to this. He was not sure what it meant or who this oversized woman was.

‘Let’s give you a sip of water. Lubricate your throat.’ She held a paper cup to his dry, cracked lips and allowed the water to pass through. It felt so good. Snow leaned forward a little, greedily slurping in the liquid. It was the best drink in the world.

‘There’s a good boy.’

Snow peered up at her again. Of course, she was a nurse. She was looking after him. He must be ill.

With these simple thoughts in his mind, he slipped back into sleep.

When he woke again, it was dark in the room. The fluorescent tube above his bed was not lit and the nurse was not there. For a moment he felt a sense of panic, but his tired and damaged mind gradually came to the rescue. Memory began to form in his head like a tattered jigsaw puzzle. Slowly he remembered the closing moments of his life before darkness descended. As he did so, he became conscious of the dull pain in his head and the tight bandage that encased it.

He had been knocked unconscious; knocked senseless, concussed. That was it. He smiled at the deduction. He was in hospital and in safe hands.

Well, I am still alive but I hurt like hell, he thought.

Slowly and gingerly, he pulled himself from his prone position so that he could see the room a little better.

‘Hello!’ he called out. His voice strange, rough and alien. ‘Hello,’ he called again.

The door opened and a dark face peered into the room. ‘Hello, nuisance,’ it said brightly.

‘Could I have a cup of coffee, please?’

The Jamaican nurse chuckled. ‘Of course you can, darlin’. How do you like it?’

‘Black and strong.’

‘Like me, you mean.’ She laughed. ‘Coming right up and seeing that you’ve been a good boy I’ll see if I can get you a couple of chocolate biscuits.’

‘Thank you,’ said Snow, sinking down in the bed again, feeling as though he’d done a day’s work.

The next morning he was visited by a doctor after he had managed to consume a simple scrambled egg breakfast. The doctor conducted a few tests, asking Snow to tell him how many fingers he was holding up, reading aloud from a sheet and carefully following the trajectory of his Biro.

‘You seem to be on the mend all right, but the old bonce has taken quite a bashing, you know,’ said the young medic, sitting on the edge of Snow’s bed. ‘You’ve been badly concussed and it will take a while before you’ll feel your old self again. You’ll need to rest for a few weeks before you can get back in the saddle. The brain is a delicate organ, you know, and will take a while to fully recuperate. Don’t try and rush things or you can cause yourself some problems.’

‘I understand. When can I leave?’

The doctor smiled. ‘Not so fast. You’re not ready yet. A couple of days, I reckon, but we’ll need to give that brain of yours a scan first. Just to make absolutely certain there’s no permanent damage. In the meantime it’s your job to relax and take advantage of the rest. Can’t tell you what I’d give for a couple of days in bed being looked after by a set of pretty nurses.’

With a laugh and a cheery wave he left.

In the afternoon, Paul Snow had a visitor. He woke for his post-lunch nap to find Bob Fellows sitting patiently on a chair by his bedside. He was never more pleased to see the bulky form and ruddy cheeks of his DS. He was a link with the outside world, his old life and, for want of a better word, reality.

Bob grinned. ‘Good to see you, sir, although I must admit I’ve seen you looking better.’

‘Somewhat ropey, eh?’

Bob nodded. ‘A bit like a Picasso painting. Your face is a mass of colours from blues to red to yellow. And your nose seems a little bent. Still the doc seems pleased with your progress.’

‘That’s good.’

‘I would have brought you grapes but …’

Snow laughed heartily, although his head ached as he did so. ‘I’m not really interested in grapes. But what I am interested in is … the story.’

‘The story?’

‘How did I get here? What’s happened to Bird and the little girl?’

‘Are you sure you’re up to all that?’

‘Of course I am. It will comfort me to have those pieces put into place.’

‘Well, there are certain pieces missing from my end too, sir. How on earth did you know about Bird – that he was the bugger who’d kidnapped the lass?’

‘Later, Bob, eh? When I’m more compos mentis. Just fill me in from your end.’

Bob could tell Snow was getting a little agitated so he dropped that particular query.

‘A motorist found the girl wandering on the road in a distressed condition not far from the golf club cottage. Her hands were covered in blood and she was gibbering. Eventually this guy was able to get some sense out her, called the police and we found you and Bird up at the cottage. It was Bosworth who got there first. He said you both looked dead, lying there on the carpet. “Still as corpses you were”, he said.’ Bob smiled. ‘Always was a bit of a drama queen, Bosworth.’

‘Is Bird …?’

‘Well, he’s alive but …’ Bob Fellows grimaced and wound his right hand in a circular motion up by the side of his head. ‘Doolally, I’m afraid.’

‘In what way?’

‘It seems there is severe brain damage. That lass gave him a right going over. Mind you, can’t blame her, the bastard deserved it. The docs have said he’s now … what was the phrase … “in a vegetative state”. As I said, doolally.’

Snow did not know how to react to this news. Feelings of relief and regret mingled in his still foggy mind.

‘What about the little girl?’

‘Ah, she’s coming round. She’s not exactly in a good place yet, but they reckon in time she’ll make a full recovery. There’s little physical damage but mentally she’s still a bit spaced out. She has no memory of the attack which, I suppose, is a good thing. Something like that could really freak the lass out for the rest of her life. She was sedated at first but has been weaned off the drugs now. She’s a gutsy little thing. She’s been able to give us a statement of what she remembers, the kidnap and stuff – but that’s all. We just need your version now – but that can wait, can’t it, until you are up and about and your normal self.’

Snow nodded gently. ‘I suppose so,’ he said.

‘Oh, I forgot,’ cried Bob suddenly, wriggling in his chair. ‘You’ve got an admirer.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, as you can imagine this business has been in the papers. Well, that headmistress at Elizabeth’s school seems most concerned about you. Came to the HQ to ask if you were all right, how you were going on etc. I reckon she fancies you. I saw the way she looked at you in her office …’

‘What bloody nonsense. She’ll just be relieved her pupil is safe.’

‘Bloody nonsense yourself, sir. I know what I know and what I saw.’ He winked at Snow in an exaggerated fashion.

Snow couldn’t help himself but smile.

‘When d’you reckon you’ll be out of here?’

‘By the weekend, but I’ve been told to take a week or so to recover fully.’

‘Well, I’d take advantage of the break. There’ll be a hell of a lot of paperwork waiting on your desk.’

‘I can’t wait.’ And Snow meant it. He longed to be out of this hospital cocoon, away from the white walls, the smell of antiseptic and the hushed atmosphere, and back in the thick of it again, and if that meant writing reports and filling forms and other mundane tasks, so be it. He would welcome the tasks with open arms.

When Bob had gone, Snow sat propped up on his pillows, staring at the wall opposite, lost in thought. What on earth was he going to say about Bird in his statement? How could he explain his actions? What reasons could he come up with for breaking into the man’s house and tracing him to the golf cottage? If Bird was, as Bob had averred, ‘doolally’, Snow realised that it provided an opportunity to massage the facts and avoid any mention of Bird’s obsession with him and the implications that would bring. But what would he say? To be more precise: what lies would he construct?

With these troubled thoughts swimming around his brain, he drifted once more into the safe realm of sleep.

He was woken some time later by a nurse who held a mug of tea in her hand.

‘You’re a popular one today,’ she said breezily, placing the mug in Snow’s unsteady hand, the warmth bringing him a strange kind of comfort. ‘You’ve another visitor. The second this afternoon.’ She threw a glance towards a figure standing in the doorway. Snow focused his sleepy eyes on it. It was Matilda Shawcross, the head teacher of St Jude’s.