Innocent Blood (7 page)

Within twenty minutes he had reached the chosen spot, a woodland area accessed down a steep path on Heaton Road. He pulled the van off the road into a little copse and turned his headlights off. He sat patiently, waiting for it to fall fully dark. When he was ready, he climbed over the driver’s seat into the back of the van and gazed at the young girl lying there. He hesitated for a fraction but he knew he had to act before she woke up. He didn’t want a repeat of the tussle he’d had last time. It would be better for her too.

He leaned forward and clamped his hands around her throat. He applied pressure, gently at first and then harder. The girl stirred and a strange rasping noise emanated from the tape covering her mouth. Briefly, her unseeing eyes opened and seemed to stare accusingly at him. He turned away but tightened his grip on the girl’s neck. The feel of the smooth, supple and vulnerable skin gave him strength. Now he could do it. Now, he almost enjoyed it. Her body stirred gently at first and then she squirmed more vigorously in her death throes, as though experiencing a bad dream. His fingers tightened even more. He could feel her windpipe crushing under the force. She emitted a muffled cry and then with a final shudder, the girl lay still.

He fell back against the inner wall of the van, his eyes filled with tears and his chest heaving with sobs.

Sometime later, having wrapped the girl’s body in a large sheet of rough sacking, he carried it down through the woods towards the large pool that lay at the bottom of the slope. The water lay still and black like treacle under the darkened sky. He struggled on to the short wooden jetty used by anglers. He took the body out of its wrapping and, with as much effort as he could muster, he hurled it into the pool. There was a gentle splash and initially it disappeared from sight, but then with grim inevitability it slowly returned to the surface, a white elbow just breaking the surface of the scummy water.

He wrapped up the sacking and with one final look at the body floating just beneath the surface of the pool, he made his way up the slippery path back to the van. He was neither elated nor sad. He felt numb. But he was conscious that his job was not yet half done.

‘Certainly looks like the same fellow – if a fellow it be, as you might say,’ observed Chris McKinnon, as he rose from his crouching position to face Paul Snow.

‘Strangled?’

McKinnon nodded. ‘Virtually identical to the other one. But no bruises around the face this time. He’s getting better with practice.’

Snow gave the pathologist a withering glance. He knew this gallows-type humour was typical of the breed and in many ways helped them to cope with the ghoulish nature of their profession, but it did effectively remove any sympathetic concern for the victim and that was too harsh for Snow’s sensibilities. He gazed down at the corpse of the young girl and felt infinitely sad.

‘If you’re right,’ Snow said at length, ‘it’s likely that we have a serial killer on our hands – and those bastards prove to be not only cunning but barmy too: a devilish combination. Logical, practical policing is useless when you get one of those weird sods rampaging about the countryside killing young kids.’

McKinnon wanted to say, ‘Not my problem’, but he had enough sense to gauge Snow’s mood and hold the comment back. It might be a smart riposte, and indeed true, but it wouldn’t help his relationship with Snow. Instead he resorted to a weary shrug.

Bob Fellows joined them at the waterside. ‘Just had a call from HQ,’ he said. ‘A young girl matching this one’s appearance went missing last night. Angela Cleeves. She never returned home from her music lesson.’

‘Better get DS Morgan to go and see the parents. Get a photo of the lass. No point in putting them through an identification procedure until we’re fairly certain. If this is Angela, then we’ll need the usual background material. Could you follow that up in due course, Bob?’

Fellows gave a mock salute. ‘Righto, sir.’ He then cast a glance down at the mud-stained body which lay just a few feet away. ‘A pretty lass.’

‘Yes,’ said Snow. ‘She was.’

It transpired, as Snow had expected, that the corpse that had been found floating in the pond in Heaton woods was indeed that of Angela Cleeves. Bob had arranged for the parents to identify the body formally and to gather what detail he could about the girl and in particular her movements the previous evening. Snow had gone through this harrowing procedure with the Boltons and he was determined to give this one a miss. He knew he was a coward, avoiding being there when Angela’s mother and father saw their daughter for the last time, when the white sheet was pulled back to reveal the stark, pallid face of their little girl, her glassy eyes staring into space, the hair scraped back and the livid, dark bruises all around her neck. It would break the heart of the sternest of men and he was far from that. He had no desire for children himself, but he empathised with anyone who lost one in such cruel circumstances. It was the senseless waste in the destruction of innocence that affected him the most. These youngsters had not been in the world long enough to warrant suffering any harm, let alone their lives being snuffed out in such a vicious and violent fashion.

He stayed late at the office that night. Somehow he just couldn’t face going home and pretending to return to some sort of normality, not when he knew it was up to him to prevent any more kids falling prey to this madman. He felt guilty enough after they had got nowhere after the first murder, but now he would really have to raise his game. This wasn’t a one-off killer. The beast had started a pattern. There would be more bodies, more grieving parents, if he didn’t come through.

A pattern.

He’d thought it, but hadn’t seen it. With only two victims it would be difficult to see the big picture. But not impossible.

Well, he could try. Bloody hell, he had to try. And try damned hard.

Brewing up a particularly strong cup of coffee, he cleared his desk of all papers apart from those that dealt with the details concerning the two dead girls. Slowly he went through them, hoping that he could note down any similarity between them, anything, however small, that might link them. After half an hour he was struggling. The girls were roughly the same age. Their birthdays, May and July, were two months apart. However, they lived in different parts of the town and attended different schools. Gillian’s father was a motor mechanic and her mother was a dental receptionist. Angela’s father was an accountant and her mother worked as his secretary. The couples were not likely to socialise: they did not know each other and their social circles did not merge in any way. The girls both appeared to be average students at school. It seemed that Angela had some facility for music. She played the piano. That was about it.

Pattern? What pattern?

With a sigh he gazed down at the blank page of his notepad.

God, there had to be something.

Something.

He studied the notes again.

Some forty minutes later, Paul Snow left the building with the little seed of an idea planted in his brain. He had little hope that it would flower, but he would tend it carefully the next day.

The following morning was one of those bright spring days when the blue skies and sharp yellow sunshine led one to believe that summer had arrived early, until you felt the sharp edge to the wind that rustled the new leaves, chased scraps of paper down the pavement and cut through your clothing like a knife. Snow was in the office early. He was a poor sleeper at the best of times and when on a difficult investigation he found it impossible to sleep on beyond six. So he decided he would shower, breakfast and come into work. It was pointless just lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. And today he had that seed to attend to, to nurture with a bit of luck.

However, he had to wait for the arrival of DS Susan Morgan before he could take things further. She was on time as usual but he waited for her to grab herself the first tea of the day before calling her into his office. Initially there was an awkward moment between them. Snow could see from her apprehensive looks and uncertain body language that she was unsure what he was going to say to her. To allay her fears that he might be about to touch on the personal conversation of a few days previously, he lifted up his case notes to indicate this was a business matter.

‘I’ve been going through the background of the two girls,’ he said. ‘And I thought you might be able to help me.’

‘Oh,’ she seemed genuinely surprised.

‘What do you know about the Marsdale Youth Choir?’

Susan looked surprised. This was certainly not the kind of question she was expecting.

‘Marsdale Youth Choir?’ she repeated, her brow gently wrinkling.

Snow nodded.

‘Well, as far as I know it no longer exists. After the accident.’

‘The accident. Oh, the coach crash.’

‘Yes, it happened last winter. It was a kiddies’ choir. Girls around the ages of nine and ten. They’d been entered into a competition over Manchester way. On the way back, their minibus crashed. A lot of the poor devils were killed.’

Snow nodded slowly. He was reminded that Melanie Bolton had mentioned the crash. Her daughter had been friends with one of the victims. For some reason Snow felt a small tingle of excitement.

‘Why are you interested?’ asked Susan.

Snow pursed his lips. ‘Gillian Bolton and Angela Cleeves had both been members of the choir.’

‘Really. Do you think that’s significant?’

Snow shrugged. ‘Possibly not, but as far as I can see that is the only slender thread that links the two girls.’

‘Slender.’

‘Can you get me the newspaper files on the accident and any other info on the choir? Presumably there are some adults still around who were involved.’

‘Yes, sir. Will do,’ she said. Her whole demeanour had altered now she was clearly and firmly in her role as police officer. Susan was very comfortable with this, and with a brisk movement, she left the office.

Within an hour, Susan had returned with a series of photocopies from the
Huddersfield Examiner
relating to the Marsdale Choir and the accident. Susan, in her usual efficient fashion, had organised them in date order.

Snow thanked her, grabbed himself a coffee and closed his office door, which was a sign to the other officers that he didn’t want to be disturbed unless it was urgent. He then sat down to pore over the cuttings.

The first one read:

MARSDALE TOTS CONTENDERS FOR CLARION PRIZE

Huddersfield’s prestigious youth singing group, the Marsdale Choir, have entered the Clarion Music Festival in Manchester in October. The group, made up of twelve young girls between the ages of nine and eleven, have already won some local trophies, including the Honley Singing Cup at the Honley Feast, and have high hopes of bringing away a prize from the Manchester competition. Choir mistress Mrs Gloria Niven (62) said the girls were very excited at entering the competition and were determined to prove their worth over the border in Lancashire. Marsdale Choir was only formed eighteen months ago but already it has achieved great acclaim and success. Part of the reason for the Choir’s success is the mix of old and modern music in their repertoire. ‘We tackle anything from Handel to the Beatles,’ said Mrs Niven. There is now a long waiting list to join the choir, especially as they are booked to appear on BBC’s local news programme
Look North
this Christmas with a fresh take on Irving Berlin’s seasonal favourite, ‘White Christmas’.

The second cutting included a picture showing the mangled remains of a minibus lying in a ditch in a moorland setting.

TRAGEDY ON MARSDALE MOOR

Eleven killed in terrible crash in fog

A tragic accident occurred last night in thick fog on the top of Marsdale Moor. A minibus, which was carrying the twelve members of the Marsdale Choir and some of their parents, skidded on the wet road surface in the fog and turned over and crashed down into a gulley. The driver, Francis Halford of Bradley Mills Lane, was killed along with the choir mistress, Mrs Gloria Niven of Greenlea Road, Slaithwaite. Seven young members of the choir also died in the crash, along with two parents: Mrs Aileen Dudley and Mrs Linda Green. The survivors were taken to Huddersfield General Hospital and were treated for comparatively minor injuries and allowed to go home.

A third cutting followed:

MEMORIAL SERVICE FOR THE

MARSDALE CRASH VICTIMS

The Reverend Archie Foster, vicar of Marsdale Parish Church, conducted the Memorial Service on Saturday for the victims of the horrendous crash which cruelly took away the lives of seven young girls, all members of the Marsdale Choir: Anne Green (10), Elaine Halstead (10), Lorna Blake (9), Brenda Truscott (11), Debbie Hirst (11), Zoe Blackmoore (10), Christine Dudley (11). Also amongst the fatalities were the driver, Francis Halford, Choir Mistress, Mrs Gloria Niven, Mrs Aileen Dudley and Mrs Linda Green.

The choir had just competed in the Clarion Music Festival in Manchester and were travelling home in a minibus when it ran into a patch of fog and crashed.

Thomas, the husband of Mrs Niven, was due to read a eulogy at the service but was too ill to attend. Rev Foster said that it would be many years before the dark shadow cast by this dreadful event would be erased. He praised the work of Mrs Niven and expressed his deepest sympathy for the parents who had lost their beloved daughters. Many left the church in tears.

Snow sat back and sighed. It was a terrible story. He remembered it but it had not really impinged on his consciousness. He had been involved in a complex investigation at the time and his mind and energies had been focused on that. He stared down at the cuttings again. Was there anything there? Two of the girls had been in the Marsdale Choir. They had survived the horrendous crash. They would have known each other. Was that a coincidence? Or …?

He pondered this conundrum for a while and then suddenly he sat back and gritted his teeth.

Time to get off my backside, he thought.

After his morning’s activities, Snow grabbed a late lunch at the County: a beef sandwich and a half of Tetley’s while he mulled over the events of the morning. He had visited both the mothers of the murdered children to ask them about the Marsdale Choir and if the two girls had been friends. It had not been a fruitful mission. According to Melanie Bolton, her daughter had mentioned Angela Cleeves but only in a disparaging way. ‘I think Gill thought she was a bit stuck up. They certainly weren’t mates.’ On the other hand, Mrs Cleeves had told him that her daughter had never mentioned ‘the Bolton girl’ at all. Neither parent had been at the concert in Manchester. If drawing a blank was an effective way of spending your morning, thought Snow, he’d done rather well.