Bolt-hole (3 page)

I had no desire to drag it out any longer than was necessary and after just a moment’s thought I answered, “I’d rather stay if that’s all right, get things sorted out now.  I don’t want to be coming back.”  She nodded and the waiting began again.

At 3:35 a.m. a male nurse knocked and stuck his head round the door.  Not making eye contact with me, he spoke to Yvonne. “They’ve just phoned, they’re ready for you.” 

I let out a deep breath.  It flickered across my mind that it might be better to go home, get some rest and then come back later.  Yvonne, presumably picking up on my uneasiness, turned to me. “Are you sure you want to do this now?” 

I just nodded, knowing that I had to stay strong and that delaying the inevitable wouldn’t help me. 

Yvonne led the way to the morgue, with Shaw and me following in silence.  The single storey redbrick building was about a hundred metres from the main hospital complex and required a short walk in the moonlit open air.  We headed straight to the back entrance of the morgue and to a huge set of double doors, big enough for an ambulance to comfortably drive through.  Yvonne pressed the bell and it chimed loudly inside.  As we waited I glanced into Shaw’s face, eerily illuminated by a fluorescent light on the side of the building.  She looked harrowed and almost as if she had aged a couple of decades in the last few hours.  I suspected, like me, this was one night she’d never forget. 

Within twenty seconds there was a grating of metal from inside and the sound of a heavy bolt sliding, and then the big doors slowly opened.  It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the brilliance of the light from inside and to see a man, probably close to retiring age, standing in front of us.  He had a sallow, pale complexion that seemed appropriate for his line of work, and as he stroked his full beard he beckoned us in.  Taking just a single step inside, the strong smell of chemicals hit my nostrils and I recognised the distinctive and unpleasant whiff of formaldehyde from the university labs.

I was taken through to a small viewing area with a patterned floral carpet, pale pink walls and two large vases containing plastic flowers on tables at either end of the room.  Though I tried not to look, almost pretending they weren’t there, the room was dominated by three metal trolleys, on castors, covered in crisp white sheets with the forms of bodies of different sizes clearly evident beneath. 

Over the next five minutes I was taken to each table in turn; the sheet was removed to reveal the face and I simply nodded while the superintendent, hovering a few paces behind clutching a clipboard, would then step forward and I would sign an official-looking document confirming the identity.  Perhaps surprisingly, I felt little in the way of emotion, just totally numb.  After the identification of William, the third body, I was taken back to the waiting area for a few minutes while the trolleys were wheeled out and the remaining members of my family were brought in for the procedure to be repeated.

Around 4:00 a.m. the process was finally over.  The superintendent turned to me. “Sir, would you like to spend any more time with your family?” 

I didn’t.  I wanted to go home.

Chapter 3

In the cold damp alley off Station Road my thoughts are sharply brought back to the present as the door of the Earl of Arundel pub opens
and releases a shaft of smoke-filled light into the dark street.  My heart begins to pound and I tighten my grip on the machete handle as an indistinct figure appears in the shadows of the pub entrance.  But almost immediately comes the acute sense of anticlimax with the realization that it’s not Musgrove.  The man, probably at least seventy and walking with a stick, clears his throat loudly, spits on the pavement and drunkenly meanders down the street.  I silently urge him forward, fearful that Musgrove could appear at any time; an eye-witness, even a pissed old bloke, is the last thing I need.  After thirty seconds or so, the man stops halfway down the street, fumbles with his keys for what seems like an age and then lets himself into one of the terraced houses.  As the door closes behind him, the scene is once again deserted and I find myself breathing more easily. 

With last orders approaching, the next few minutes drag by uneventfully.  The chip shop girl has scoffed her last chip and, with the lights turned off, the street is in darkness as the wind howls shrilly down the narrow alley.  A fine drizzle begins to fall and I tuck the long knife into the top of my jacket to stop the handle getting slippery.  The door of the pub opens again and I quickly look back up as a blast of raucous laughter crosses the street.  A figure steps out of the pub; it’s certainly a man but his back is turned as he struggles to light a cigarette in the squall.  After several failed attempts, the tip of the cigarette glows orange and forms a beacon in the darkness.  He then turns and starts across the road, his head down, bowed into the wind and rain.  His face remains obscured as my heart thunders against my sternum. 
Look up, look up,
I silently plead, but for a painful few seconds his gaze appears fixed to the ground at his feet.  Then finally, now just a few paces from me, he lifts his head. 
Musgrove, it’s Musgrove,
my thoughts scream as I recognise his distinctive features.  He’s looking directly at me but is apparently oblivious to my presence in the shadows.  I feel sick but I know what I’ve got to do. 

With my gloved hand, I delve into the jacket and pull out the heavy metal machete in a single action.  I feel a sharp pain to the underside of my jaw and immediately feel warm fluid running down my neck, but nothing can stop me.  I step from the alley and walk slowly and purposefully towards him.  He’s now just a couple of yards away and, for the first time, he sees me.  There’s a look of vague recollection in his eyes but in his alcohol and drug-induced stupor he’s got no time to react.  I raise the heavy instrument to initiate the swing but then stop momentarily as a shaft of light from a car’s headlamps sweeps into the road along with the rattle of a diesel engine.  But way past the point of no return, my gaze remains focused on Musgrove and I lunge at him with the force of my entire body.  In an instant, the brutal blade slices deep into the side of his neck.  I quickly step aside to avoid the pulsatile spray of blood and then watch as his knees buckle and he collapses face-down to the ground without uttering a sound. 

For a time, almost hypnotised, I can’t take my eyes off him.  The heavy instrument is embedded in his neck – he’s not completely decapitated but surely as near as makes no difference.  I’d always wondered how I’d react to the sight of blood, and now looking down at my victim and watching the dark liquid pool between the cobbles of the street, my principle emotion is, shockingly, a kind of relief, certainly not guilt and certainly not regret.  I fleetingly wonder what sort of person I have become, knowing that I’ve crossed a line and that I’ll never be able go back.

Shaking away my introspection and reconnecting to a reality of sorts, I bend to drag Musgrove’s body into the alley and behind the dumpster.  At the same time I turn part-way to face the car’s headlights and to my astonishment, blocking the road just a few metres in front of me, is a police transit van.  Stunned almost rigid, it takes a second for me to react before I let go of Musgrove’s limp body and turn to run.  Behind me the door of the van slides open, followed by a male voice shouting frantically into a police radio, giving details and my description.  I sprint down the alley, almost immediately stumbling over a roll of discarded carpet and only just managing to stay upright.  It’s too narrow for the transit but already I can hear the officer pursuing on foot as I leave the alley and dash across the adjacent road.  After weeks of cross-country training I’m physically strong and confident that if it’s down to a foot race I stand a decent chance of evading capture.  But with the siren from the transit blasting out in the near distance I know it’s only a matter of time before more police are on the way. Maybe even the force helicopter is airborne, with its infra-red camera guiding my pursuers on the ground.

For the next five minutes I continue at speed, though not quite flat-out, knowing that I’ve got several miles to cover and I need to pace myself.  The rain is beginning to fall more heavily, slowing my progress as I slip repeatedly on the greasy and poorly surfaced pavements. 

With the initial shock subsiding I curse my bad luck.  In my meticulous planning I’d envisaged numerous shit-hits-the-fan scenarios but never that I’d be witnessed in the act and the police would be after me so quickly.  Of course by now I’d hoped, with Musgrove dead and my crime unwitnessed, that I’d be calmly heading to the train station and on to the airport hotel before my flight to Rio de Janeiro and safety.  I know it’s a cliché for fugitives to head for South America but it seemed the ideal solution.  Once in my discreet rented apartment, I would keep tabs on the internet and TV news and if there was any hint that the authorities suspected my involvement, I would keep my head down and stay put. On the other hand, if I were in the clear I’d return to Britain at my leisure.  But no more; the elements of my contingency plan are now at the fore of my thinking and it’s essential that I get to the first of my bolt-holes in Graves Park to regroup before the push to the more secure hideaway in the remote Peak District National Park. 

Born and raised in Sheffield, I’m intimately familiar with the geography and the many public parks and woodland that link, almost without interruption, the centre of town to Graves Park on the outskirts and from there to the isolation of the Peak District beyond.  But first I must get away from the built-up areas where I’m sure capture is more likely, and reach Millhouses Park, the first link in the chain of quiet and secluded parklands that I pray will be my route to freedom. 

My thighs are burning and my chest tightening but I keep going.  Buoyed up by the surge of adrenaline and the desperate desire to avoid capture, I run through the largely residential streets with the footsteps and heavy breathing of the chasing copper becoming gradually fainter.  The wailing siren from the police transit is also beginning to fade: presumably the narrow streets with speed bumps and one-way sections limit the promptness of the police to give chase or to organize any form of roadblock.

Millhouses Park, my immediate goal, is now less than a couple of miles away.  I leave behind the narrow streets of Linton Green and run through the more affluent area of suburban Millhouses where the roads are wider and tree-lined.  There are fewer pedestrians but more traffic on the road and I’ve no doubt that every passing motorist is questioning my bizarre behaviour.  Wearing everyday clothes and running at speed at this time of night, it’s difficult to look anything but suspicious, but I can’t afford to worry about it now.  I have to keep going.  I set myself targets to reach: next lamppost, next junction, next red car; anything to keep the momentum going. 

In the distance I can hear sirens, more than one, growing louder and seemingly coming from different directions. 
Come on, Julian, come on,
I urge with the park now in sight on the far side of a dual carriageway.  There’s a gap in the traffic and I sprint across the road and, like an Olympic steeple-chaser, hurdle the waist-high barrier in the central reservation and then head for the park gates a hundred metres or so away, the darkness and seclusion drawing me in.  Within thirty seconds I’ve made it, and I pause exhausted in the darkness of the park entrance, hands on hips and gulping in the cold night air.  I turn to look for the officer on foot but there’s no sign of him; presumably he’s some way back in the maze of streets.  But within seconds, from different directions, two police cars pull up almost simultaneously in the middle of the dual carriageway – so near to me but oblivious to my presence in the darkness.  

The arrival of the police serves to focus my mind more sharply, and I head for the shelter of the park and then turn right to follow a deserted cycle path.  After a few hundred metres I leave the path and sprint across the adjacent cricket pitch, heading for the public toilets just beyond.  In the near total darkness I trip over a knee-high rope marking the edge of the batting-square and skid on my belly across the wet grass.  But I’m back on my feet in seconds and make my way to the toilets, a small flat-roofed building covered in graffiti. 

To my relief the conveniences are empty, though it comes as no great surprise.  They’re rarely cleaned, and with the lights not working you’d have to be pretty desperate to frequent such a place after nightfall.  I take the torch out of the front pocket of the rucksack, switch it on and then balance it on the edge of the cracked porcelain sink.  With some difficulty I remove the small key from the pocket of my soaking wet jeans, now clinging to me like a second skin, and then unlock the padlock sealing the door of the end cubicle.  Still struggling for breath, I take out the mountain bike I’d stashed earlier and attach the front wheel to the quick-release mechanism.  With the bike reassembled, I stand on the toilet base and lift the heavy porcelain lid of the old-fashioned cistern a couple of metres off the ground.  I reach into the icy cold water, pull out a tightly sealed plastic bag, and empty the contents onto the closed toilet lid.  I take out the still-dry trainers, grey jogging bottoms and hooded Nike top and begin peeling off my soaking wet jeans and jacket.  I’m shocked at the amount of blood staining my top and dripping onto the floor.  In my adrenaline-heightened state I’d felt little in the way of pain, but as I study my reflection in the rusty mirror on the toilet wall I can see a five-centimetre square flap of skin and tissue hanging from the underside of my jaw.  As I move closer to the mirror and readjust the torch to get a better view I can see that the wound is still bleeding; not spouting like an artery, but definitely a good sized vein has been severed.  I grab a hanky from my rucksack, wedge it into the crook of my neck, and secure it tightly with the scarf.  It crosses my mind that the machete, still embedded in Musgrove’s neck, will be covered in traces of my blood and no doubt ripe for forensic analysis, but I can’t allow myself to worry about it now.  I quickly put on the clean jogging gear, shove the blood-stained clothing into the toilet cistern, force down the lid and leave the toilets with the bike.

I mount the bike and head back to the cycle path before following it through a thickly-wooded, shallow valley gently sloping downhill.  The path is deserted: presumably the rain has dissuaded the kids that normally hang out late into the evening here.  After the hard running, the cycling provides something close to a breather and I cover the next couple of miles with relative ease.  I know that I can’t take the bike all the way to the bolt-hole, the rough terrain just won’t allow it, and I’ll have to dump it before resorting to foot again, but if I’m going to avoid capture, now is the time to put distance between me and the police.

Within ten minutes I’ve reached the perimeter of the park and the boundary provided by the Abbey Lane.  I get off the bike and cautiously peer out from behind a massive oak tree, and then, with the road deserted, I nip across and head for the seclusion of Beauchief Abbey Woods on the far side.  Back under the cover of the trees, I hear for the first time the distinct whirring of helicopter blades.  I glance upward to see the markings of the police chopper as it flies low above my head in the direction of the town centre but feel some sense of relief as it continues on its way without slowing or doubling back.  Checking my watch, I’m satisfied with my progress: it’s twenty-five minutes since I left the pub and I’ve put a little over three and half miles behind me. 

For the next mile I follow a meandering bark-chip path that cuts through the dense woods.  The rain continues to pound, and with water and sweat dripping into my eyes I struggle to make my way in the darkness.  The handlebars and my shoulders frequently collide with the tree trunks that border the narrow footpath, and I have to focus my concentration on staying upright rather than on speed.  Eventually I reach the end of the tree-line and arrive at the busy main road of Meadowhead.  With some reluctance I leave the safety of the dark woods and join the traffic heading out of town.  After slowing to a near crawl in the woods I soon pick up the pace again and speed past the numerous pubs, wine bars and takeaways.  I cycle on, negotiating the heavy traffic, the numerous weaving taxis taking their boozy clientele home or on to late bars.  Occasionally a police car with blue lights flashing shoots past, but always in the direction of town and mercifully never slowing to give me a second glance.  I’ve no doubt that by now most of the city’s police are aware of the attack and a description of me will have been circulated.  I can only hope that my change of clothing and the fact that I’m now on a bike will buy me precious time.