Blood Axe (23 page)

52

Unusually everyone stood
around in silence on Tuesday morning, before the briefing. As they waited uneasily, a constable attempted to crack a joke about cutting the atmosphere with an axe. The response was barely even half-hearted. Another officer told him to shut up. This was no laughing matter. Ian looked around at the sombre faces. Worse than dejected, he was worried. A demoralised team didn't work well. Somehow the team needed to rekindle the outrage that had energised them at the start of the case. Since then, the shock of two more brutal murders seemed to have overwhelmed them all. Not only that, but teams of officers drafted in from Northallerton and the surrounding area had altered the atmosphere in the station, which felt both more professional yet less focussed at the same time.

Eileen arrived looking flustered. That wasn't an encouraging start. Any hope of good news evaporated at the sight of the grey pouches under her eyes, and the droop of her shoulders. She seemed to have lost her customary confidence. Her opening words were low key. Ian sighed. There was no doubt Eileen was dedicated and thorough. With detailed knowledge of the procedures, she was unlikely to ever put a foot wrong, but her demeanour was that of a woman facing defeat. What they all needed was someone to psyche them up.

‘This man we're looking for can't be that clever,' Ian said, remembering how his school rugby coach had found encouraging words even when the team was being totally thrashed. ‘We can do this. He's not going to outwit us for long. He's bound to make a mistake, leave his DNA somewhere, or someone who knows him will come forward.'

For a moment no one answered. They all understood what he was doing. It didn't make any material difference, but he thought one or two of the young constables looked more cheerful.

‘That's all very well,' Eileen said, ‘but so far we've got nowhere.' At least she sounded angry rather than defeated.

To Ian's surprise, Naomi piped up in his defence. ‘Ian's right. Someone somewhere must know something.'

There was another pause. The hope that someone somewhere would tell them something wasn't much to go on. Ian hesitated to speak again.

‘Let's focus on the murder weapon,' Eileen said. ‘It's unusual, distinctive anyway. Where is he keeping it? Why has no one seen it?'

Eileen wanted the papers to run a picture of it again, and Yorkshire Television channels to show the image with an urgent request for any member of the public who had seen it to come forward.

‘I know we ran this before, but let's have a real push, get this image out everywhere. If anyone in the UK has seen this axe recently, they need to be alerted to the fact that we're looking for it. We have to find it.'

They were going over old ground but, if there was the slightest chance that another appeal might yield results, they had to go all out for it. They were all desperate for a break, no one more so than Ian. Bev was due home that evening and he would have given anything to get the case wound up before her return. Of course that wasn't going to happen. Even if they caught the killer, there would still be a mountain of paperwork to get through to ensure a conviction. But at least his wife would have his attention while he was at home. Until the killer was apprehended, even when he wasn't at work, witness statements would keep repeating themselves in his mind, as he sifted through searching for inconsistencies.

At half past nine, Ian set off for Jorvik. Instead of buzzing himself into the upstairs offices he joined the short queue and paid to enter. By the time he reached the front desk, the queue had built up behind him. He wandered in and crossed the large first chamber, passing an excited group of children on a school outing. He found Sophie standing at the boarding point for electric carriages that took visitors on a journey through a reconstructed Viking village. The corridor was not well lit. He had a disturbing feeling she might fling herself at him, but she merely smiled shyly as he approached. She was wearing a long pinafore, belted at the waist. Loose fitting, the outfit contrived to look attractive, perhaps because it emphasised the curves of her body. Her blonde hair was concealed beneath a complicated white headscarf wound around her head.

‘Do you want to go for a ride?' she asked, peeping up at him from beneath her head gear and blushing.

‘Actually, I'm here to see you.' He winced at the unintended ambiguity of his words. ‘I wanted to check a few details with you.'

‘We could go somewhere quieter.'

‘No, this is fine. I won't keep you long.'

There was no mistaking her peeved expression. Behind him Ian could hear the gleeful shouts of the school children. He spoke hurriedly.

‘You said you were at home with your flatmate three Sundays ago, when the first murder took place, and on your way home from work the following Wednesday. I just need one more detail from you. Where were you last Thursday evening, at around nine?'

‘You mean you're asking for an alibi, after I've done all I can to help you?'

She seemed sad, rather than angry.

‘For the process of elimination,' Ian said.

She screwed up her face. ‘Nine o'clock on Thursday I would have been at home.'

‘Can anyone vouch for that?'

‘I don't know. You can try my flatmate, but she might have been out. I don't keep a record of when she's in.'

The fact that Sophie's response wasn't conclusive only made it more credible. Ian sighed. Unlike alibis in fiction, those in real life were frequently vague. Unless they had an appointment or had booked something specific, most people couldn't remember exactly what they had been doing a few days earlier, at a particular time. Faulty and false memories resulted in a great deal of speculation. Such incomplete information was never helpful, and was frequently misleading.

53

Sophie's flatmate worked
at a restaurant in York. Tall and gangly, her bleached hair was streaked with various shades of pink and purple. It wasn't clear whether the multicoloured effect was deliberate or if the dye had faded inconsistently. Ian wasn't surprised to see the top edge of a tattoo on her neck when she flicked her long hair back behind her shoulders.

‘Sophie? Yeah, I know Sophie. We live in the same flat.' She didn't refer to Sophie as a friend, or even a flatmate. ‘She in trouble then?' she added incuriously.

‘We're just eliminating her from an enquiry.'

‘Oh, OK then.'

‘Can you confirm that she was at home on Thursday evening?'

The girl shrugged one skinny shoulder. ‘I don't keep a diary of her comings and goings.'

‘Does she go out a lot?'

‘I couldn't say, really. I mean, I'm hardly ever there in the evenings. If I'm not working, I'm out with mates. Sophie and me, we share the bills but that's about it really. I'm in the kitchen before she gets home from work, if I'm not eating here, and she cooks in the evening when I'm working, so we kind of work around each other, you know? I hear her clattering about in her room sometimes, but mostly you wouldn't even know she was there. It's not like we're best friends. Like I said, we just share the bills. She's in her own room most of the time, when she's not out at work. I mean, she keeps herself to herself, but that's OK. Suits me fine. We do our own thing. I'm hardly ever there anyway.'

‘So, last Thursday evening?'

The girl frowned. ‘Thursday? Yes, I know. I wanted an early night before the weekend so I went straight home after work and I remember she was in because I heard her music in her room. It's OK, she doesn't play it loud.'

Ian thanked Sophie's flatmate for her help and left. It didn't seem that Sophie had been out on the streets hunting for victims to hack to death. Another line of enquiry, albeit an unlikely one, had drawn a blank.

He set off early that evening to meet Bev at the station. Her train came in on time. He recognised her short blonde hair and bright red coat before she saw him. With an involuntary grin, he hurried towards her.

‘It's all right, I can manage,' she laughed as he seized her case. ‘I'm not an invalid.'

On the way back to the car, he suggested going out for a meal.

‘It's a lovely idea, Ian, but I'm really tired.'

‘No worries. I'll drop you at home and then go and get a takeaway, if you like.'

‘Sounds great. Just give me time to shower and throw some clothes in the washing machine. I'm starving!'

‘You look great,' he told her as they sat down at the kitchen table later.

It wasn't an empty compliment. Her oval face had a healthy glow and she had put on a few pounds. He hesitated to mention it, knowing she was justly proud of her figure. She tucked into her korma with a will. If he told her she had put on weight, she might not want to eat so much, and she was clearly enjoying her dinner. It was good for a person to have a healthy appetite. He didn't care if she was putting on a few pounds. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He told her so and she blushed.

‘Stop it, Ian.'

‘I can tell you how beautiful you are if I want to.'

She laughed then, and put her head in her hands. He realised she was crying.

‘Bev? What is it?'

‘I'm just tired. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'

He stood up and went round the table to her but she pushed him away and blew her nose vigorously.

‘We need to talk.'

Her serious tone made him uneasy.

‘What is it?'

‘Sit down. There's something I need to tell you.'

‘Are you ill?'

All at once it struck him that she was about to announce she was leaving him. He took a deep breath, too shocked to speak. She looked up, her eyes streaming with tears. Her next words took him completely by surprise.

‘Pregnant?' he repeated wonderingly. ‘You're pregnant?'

She dropped her head in her hands and began to cry again. For a second, Ian felt as though he couldn't breathe. They had never had a serious discussion about when they might start a family. It was something they had only talked about in very general terms. Swallowing his amazement, he forced a smile.

‘That's wonderful news, Bev. We should celebrate.'

‘What is there to celebrate?'

‘Bev, you're going to be a mother. I'm going to be a father. We're going to have a baby.' He injected as much enthusiasm into his voice as he could. The conversation felt unreal. He had no idea why she was crying, but he supposed it was her hormones making her emotional. ‘There's so much we need to talk about. When are you due?'

‘Not now, Ian. I'm so tired. I just need to get some sleep.'

‘Have you told your parents?'

‘No. I wanted to tell you first. But we mustn't tell anyone yet. It's early days, and it's bad luck to tell anyone until the first three months are over. Promise me you won't tell anyone. Promise me, Ian.'

Overwhelmed by the news, Ian agreed at once. He would have agreed to anything. As she left the room, carrying his child, he realised he hadn't asked her when she had found out, or how long she had known. This was not the time to start bombarding her with questions. A few seconds later he heard her going up the stairs. He didn't know what to do, but she had said she was tired so he decided it was best to leave her alone.

Doing his best to ignore his excitement, he opened his laptop. He had a new incentive to do well at work, a new future to plan. With a burst of energy he logged on and set to work.

‘I'll protect you,' he whispered, as though his wife was still in the room and could hear him. ‘I'll soon have this crazy bastard behind bars. The streets will be safe again for you and the baby.'

He hoped it wouldn't take long. Bev needed him more than ever now.

54

Bev was asleep
when Ian took her tea in bed in the morning. She stirred when he went in the room. Leaning over the bed, he told her softly that he was going to take care of her from now on, but she didn't wake up. He stood quite still for a moment, watching her, filled with an overwhelming love, stronger than he had ever felt before. They were joined now by so much more than their marriage vows. Promises were easily broken. A child was for life. Gently he put the cup of tea down by her side in case she woke in time to drink it before it was cold. Then, with a fatuous wave, he left.

It was hard to concentrate on the investigation. His thoughts kept returning to his wife. Until Bev was ready to share the news with other people, the baby would remain their secret. No doubt she would want to tell her family first. Until she had done so, he could not tell anyone about it, even though the baby was his too. He still couldn't believe it. In his break, he didn't go to the canteen. He would probably bump into one of his colleagues there, and he wanted to be alone. He wasn't sure he could trust himself to hide his emotion and Bev was adamant she didn't want him to tell anyone. It was all right for her, sitting at home. He was at work, sitting on the most exciting news he had ever heard. On impulse, he jumped up and strode out of the building. He wasn't sure where he was headed but found himself outside the pub a few doors along from the entrance to the police station. Hoping he wouldn't see anyone he knew, he went in and ordered a half and a sandwich. It was unusual for him to drink at lunchtime when he was on a case, but this was no ordinary day. He was going to be a father. As he sipped his beer, he couldn't stop grinning to himself.

There wasn't much he could do for now, but he was determined to attend every single antenatal class. He was going be at her side to witness the birth. In the meantime, he would give his wife everything she could possibly need. They would have to decide on a name together but there was nothing to stop him thinking about it as he had his lunch. Idly he found a website and looked through a list of boys' names. The site gave the derivation of the names, and he scanned through the meanings as well. He already knew that Ian meant Gift from God. That was all very well if you believed in God. Looking further down the list he discovered that Ralph came from Old Norse, meaning wolf-like. Staring at the screen, he felt a sudden wave of excitement and struggled to catch his breath.

George the profiler had suggested the killer might be acting out a fantasy of being a Viking warrior. Obsessed with Vikings, he might even work at Jorvik. Now Ian had discovered that one of the staff there had a Viking name. Not only that, but according to Jimmy, Ralph was obsessed with Viking weapons. Ian checked his notes. ‘Ralph knows all there is to know about the weapons. He's the expert. He gives them all names and talks to them when he thinks no one's listening.' That had struck Ian as significant at the time. Now it seemed to fit with George's theory. Leaving half his sandwich untouched, he hurried to Eileen's office.

‘You think he's a killer because of his name?' Eileen repeated, frowning.

Ian flinched at her scathing tone. He had to admit it sounded ridiculous, but when he tied his theory to what George had said, the detective chief inspector began to look excited. ‘A Viking name? Go on. Bring him in,' she barked. ‘Let's see what he has to say for himself.'

Ian hesitated over how to approach the suspect. It might be better to string Ralph along for a while. He might be more inclined to talk if he had no idea that he had become a suspect. Once arrested, he might clam up. Instead of arresting him, Ian invited Ralph to accompany him to the police station on the pretext of helping the enquiry by answering a few more questions.

Ralph agreed cheerfully enough. ‘If you're quite sure you can't speak to me just as well here.' He didn't sound worried, but that could be part of his delusion, that he was untouchable.

Once they were at the station, Ian questioned the unwitting suspect about his name. If Ralph was surprised by the question, he didn't show it.

‘Yes, it's my name. Well, that is, it's my middle name, really. My first name's Jason. I don't mind it, but I prefer Ralph.'

‘Why?'

‘What?'

‘Is there any particular reason why you choose to use your middle name?'

Ralph shook his head. He was beginning to look irritated. ‘I just like it.'

Ian skirted around the main purpose of the interview for a while without making any headway.

‘Where were you last Thursday evening, at around nine?'

Uncertain where this was leading, Ralph seemed rattled. ‘What? I was at home, where I always am in the evening.'

‘Did you go for a drive?'

‘No. I haven't got a car. What are you talking about?'

‘Did you hire a car, or borrow one, last week? There's no point in lying, Ralph, we'll trace the records. Did you drive out towards Leeds last Thursday?'

Ralph's expression changed from annoyance to indignation as he realised what Ian meant. His squint seemed more pronounced than ever.

‘Are you kidding me?'

However hard Ian pressed him, Ralph insisted that he was mistaken.

‘You're crazy to even suggest I had anything to do with those murders. It was some sicko. You've got nothing on me. The whole idea's crazy.'

‘It's crazy all right,' Ian muttered. ‘Your alibis aren't that clear for any of the times of the murders.'

‘And that's supposed to be proof of guilt, is it?' Ralph laughed, but he looked terrified. ‘I'm not going to say any more until I've spoken to a solicitor. Jesus, are you really so desperate to pin this on someone, you're prepared to accuse me just because my alibis aren't a hundred per cent watertight? Is that really how the justice system works? And why me? I don't get it. Anyway, I'm not going to say another word until I have a solicitor.'

They couldn't afford to leave questioning Ralph again until the next morning. The time for holding him without a formal charge was running out. Resigning himself to the fact that he would be home late again, Ian phoned Bev. At last the solicitor arrived but he only slowed down the questioning process. It made no difference. Ralph remained adamant that he had nothing to do with any murders, and he knew nothing about the replica Viking axe that had been used to kill three people. Every time Ian tried to press him, the lawyer raised the same question.

‘Do you have any evidence against my client?'

‘If he's guilty, we'll find the evidence, don't you worry about that.' Ian leaned forward across the desk, glaring at Ralph. ‘You won't get away with this.'

‘If,' the solicitor repeated laconically.