Bolt-hole (7 page)

Although grateful for the breather, after waiting for twenty minutes and with no sign of the storm abating, I’m increasingly desperate to get moving again.  I let another few minutes pass by and then I’ve had enough: I know that I’m wasting too much time.  I put the rucksack back on, step out of the shelter and glance behind me towards the town centre.  In the distance, barely visible in the driving rain, I can just make out the number 218 single-decker bus heading in my direction.  Almost without thinking, I wave for it to stop and the driver brakes hard, skidding a little on the wet surface before pulling up at the curb.  I climb aboard and with the hood and scarf still obscuring my face I vigorously shake the wet off my jacket, using the action as an excuse to avoid eye contact with the driver.  “One way to Owler Bar please.” 

“A bit grim out there.” he says with a strong Yorkshire accent as he takes my £5 note. 

“Yeah, you arrived at just the right time,” I respond, again without looking directly at him.

Normally the bus would be full of ramblers heading to the town of Bakewell in the Peak District
, but I’m relieved to find that I’m the only passenger; presumably the poor forecast has put many of them off.  Out of view of the driver’s rear-view mirror, I take a seat at the back, the warmest spot on the bus, above the throbbing engine generating heat below me.  The windows are lined with thick condensation and I clear a patch to view the blanket of water falling from the sky.  As I stare out at the pounding rain, I begin to question whether I’ve done the right thing by catching the bus.  I feel strangely uneasy about deviating from the rigid structure of the plan that has held me together for the last few months.  In my original planning stage I’d briefly considered taking the bus, knowing that it would reduce the walking distance by a good six miles, but ultimately on balance felt it too risky, with recognition by the driver or another passenger a distinct possibility.  I can only hope that I won’t live to regret it.

Attempting to distract my mind from negative thoughts, I pick up a discarded copy of the Metro paper from the seat next to me.  Studying the front page, I’m pleasantly surprised to find that I’m not the main event, and it crosses my mind that my fifteen minutes of notoriety are over. But turning to page two, I see that it’s not the case: there’s a full-page story under the banner headline, “Revenge Killer on Run”, below which is a photograph, again taken from my university ID.  There is also a small photograph of Detective Superintendent Greene.  He looks about fifty, though possibly older, and has a weathered face that reminds me of the stereotypical hard-drinking and grizzled old detectives on TV.  The article proceeds to describe in lurid detail the hit-and-run and the failure of the police to bring any charges.  The final paragraph, and the one of most relevance to me, discusses the potential whereabouts of “the fugitive” and DS Greene is quoted: “We are keeping an open mind but at the moment our priority is to speak to Dr Julian Scott wherever he might be.  I would urge him to come forward, and if his whereabouts are known to members of the public I would ask them to call 999 immediately.”  He went on to add: “There have been several possible sightings, both at home and overseas, and we are investigating a number of important leads.  Following our earlier appeals a witness has also come forward who states that a man matching Julian Scott’s description was seen staying at a bedsit directly opposite where the victim lived in the weeks prior to his death.  We are currently performing a detailed forensic search of the property.”  A final question by the interviewer has produced the following answer: “Whoever has committed this murder is by definition a dangerous individual and it is the highest priority of South Yorkshire Police Service to apprehend him as soon as possible.” 

I put the paper down and consider the latest developments.  Clearly the police know that I was living at 17b – presumably my busybody neighbour is the
witness
in question.  But the discovery of 17b doesn’t necessarily worry me; yes, I may have left forensic evidence confirming that I’d stayed there, but certainly nothing to indicate my long-term plans.  A second point that stands out from the article is the repeated use of the word
“victim”.  I can’t believe it: Musgrove isn’t a
victim
, he’s a murdering parasite.  Helen is the victim, my boys are the victims, my parents are the victims, and I’m the victim.  Musgrove is not a victim.

I slowly reread the article to check that I’ve not missed anything.  As I come to the end of the final paragraph for the second time, my concentration is interrupted by a blur of blue light speeding past the window, followed a second later by a siren wailing.  I sit bolt upright, dropping the paper to the floor. 
Has the driver recognised me?
  I can just make out the reflection of his eyes in the rear-view mirror but they give nothing away and I turn my attention to the outside.  The condensation on the window has re-accumulated and I wipe it clear with the palm of my hand as the water drips down my forearm under the sleeve of my jacket.  Frantically I press my forehead against the window, attempting to get a better view of the front of the bus, but I still can’t make out what’s going on.  The brakes squeal loudly as the bus slows, and I move to the centre of the back seat to look down the aisle and through the windscreen, with the wipers on full pelt to clear the rain.  The bus comes to a complete stop, with a Volvo police traffic car blocking the road twenty metres or so in front.  I turn behind me to look through the back window just as another police car overtakes the bus and then pulls up next to the Volvo. 

Panic-stricken, I search for the bus’s emergency exit, not realising that I’m sitting right next to it.  Within seconds the front doors open and a short, overweight policeman climbs aboard and then looks down the bus towards me.  I grab the pull handle of the emergency exit and, almost rigid with fear, hold my breath and wait for his response.  But amazingly he appears indifferent to me, turning instead to the driver. “Sorry to stop you mate.  I’m PC Dave Carmichael from Otley Road.  Bad news – a lightning strike ahead has brought down a tree branch.  Unfortunately the road’s blocked until a bloke and a chainsaw arrive from the council.  You know what they’re like – we could be here for a few weeks.” 

My anxiety eases a modicum, and I afford myself the luxury of a breath as sweat continues to pour from my skin.  I let go of the emergency handle, though keep it in easy reach, check my collar is pulled up to cover my face, and sink into the seat. 

For the next few minutes PC Carmichael and the driver engage in small talk, before a second and much younger policeman boards the bus and addresses his colleague. “Somebody from the works department is on the way, apparently should be here within ten minutes.” 

The driver turns round to look down the aisle in my direction
. “We should be sorted before too long, mate.” 

“No problem
,”  I respond, as casually as I can, although
no problem
is not how I would describe my current situation: virtually a national celebrity, on the run for murder, and within ten metres of the boys in blue.  I suppose I should just be grateful that they’re not the most diligent of coppers and I’m not already in shackles. 

I focus my attention out of the window, all the time ready to make a move if need be.  We’ve stopped outside a petrol station next to which are a couple of shops and a large pub.  As a sixteen-year-old, the latter had a certain infamy, as the licensee had been particularly lax at interpreting the legal age for drinking and the place was consequently popular with a younger clientele.  Life seemed so much simpler in those days.

After fifteen very long minutes, a city council van finally drives past and soon I hear the whine and rattle of a chainsaw starting up.  A third policeman with collar-length blond hair, slicked back with gel, joins his colleagues.  The other two officers refer to him as “Glamour Boy”, and they sit at the front talking to the driver while the council worker begins to dismantle the obstructing branch.  Turning to look through the back window of the bus, I see that the rain is slackening, and with the improving visibility I can see the traffic held up all the way to the previous roundabout almost half a mile back.  Facing the front again, my heart immediately sinks as Glamour Boy picks up a copy of the Metro.  I grip the emergency door handle, silently praying that I won’t have to use it.  But providing a reprieve, however temporary, he turns straight to the football on the back page. 

With the chainsaw still whining away, I can just make out the workman’s bobbing head at the bottom of the windscreen and the occasional stream of flying sawdust, but frustratingly I can’t see how much longer he’s going to be.  Again I curse my stupidity for deviating from my carefully constructed plan; I sense that my luck is finally running out as Glamour Boy finishes with the sports section and turns to the front of the paper.  Almost resigned to my fate, I’m desperate for the torture to end, and as he turns the page I suspect that even capture is better than the current uncertainty.  The walls feel like they’re closing in, and I hold my breath, one hand gripping the door handle, the other on my rucksack, in readiness for a speedy exit.  I watch, my body rigid with fear as he scans the page with my photo covering more than half of it.  I count the seconds as he stares at my picture,
one … two … three … four …
and then, to my utter disbelief, without looking up, he turns to the next page. 

I take a hurried breath but my sense of relief is immediately punctuated by an ear-splitting whistling sound.  The driver and the three coppers turn to face me …
should I run?
But before I’ve time to make a decision, the driver is on his feet and walking towards me.  “You’ve triggered the alarm, mate … the emergency exit is open.” 

I look down and see that my sweat-soaked hand has slipped off the handle and released the locking mechanism.  The driver reaches across me, opens the door wide into the road and then slams it shut. The alarm ceases on cue.  The third copper, Glamour Boy, is still staring at me;
am I paranoid or is there a flicker of recognition in his eyes?
  Loud knocking on the windscreen diverts the focus of his gaze and I realise the whine and rattle of the chainsaw has finally stopped.  With the words of the council worker, “Roads clear, lads,” the policemen jump off the bus, obviously relieved the waiting is over, and I watch traumatised as they head for their cars. 

Within a few minutes the bus is moving again and the now segmented branch has been moved to the roadside, with just a pile of sawdust indicating where it had fallen.  I sit at the back of the bus, emotionally wrecked and struggling to hold myself together as the police cars peel off into the distance with their blue lights flashing.

Chapter 7

“Welcome to the Peak District National Park.”  The torrential rain has finally abated and there are blue, cloud-free skies in the distance as we pass the sign at the side of the road.  Twenty minutes after the bus got moving again we’ve officially left the Sheffield city boundary, though I’m in no state to celebrate the milestone, and sit with my head in my hands.  Despite the relief that I’ve not been recognised, the pounding in my chest and feelings of nausea are unrelenting and only compounded by the winding and undulating narrow country road.  I know the area well; if I stay on the bus it will take me at least three miles closer to Kinder Scout.  But I’m desperate for fresh air and ready to sacrifice the extra few miles to be rid of the stifling atmosphere of the bus. 

I press the bell to signal to the driver to stop.  “We’re not at Owler Bar yet, mate,” he responds, looking at me through his mirror. 

“I’m not feeling too great, I need some fresh air.”  I can picture my grey and sickly appearance as I reply.

Presumably his bus smelling of puke is the last thing he wants, and he adds quickly:  “Hang on mate, hang on, I’ll stop at the next safe bit of road.” 

We go over the brow of a hill and around a sharp bend before pulling over
on a straight section of road.  I gratefully climb off the bus with my head bowed, staring at the floor.  Behind me I hear the driver chuckling, followed by a final quip under his breath.

“I didn’t think my driving was that bad.” 

I wait for the bus to pull away and then do a quick 360
-degree survey of the area.  On both sides of the road there is a patchwork of fields divided by dry stone walls, and beyond them in the distance, probably two or three miles away, the rough terrain and bracken of the open moorland begins.  Immediately next to me is a field with a herd of Friesian cows grazing on the lush grass.  After checking that I’m alone, I climb the metre-high dry stone wall and jump down the slightly greater distance on the other side, into the field.  With my head still spinning, I drop to my hands and knees and violently regurgitate the partially digested beans and biscuits from my breakfast.  I vomit continuously until my stomach is empty and my abdominal muscles begin to ache.  After sixty seconds or so the retching finally stops.  I wipe the spit from my chin with the back of my hand and lie face down in the long, rain-drenched grass, unconcerned that my clothes are getting soaked.  I close my eyes as the sun breaks through the clouds and gently warms my aching, angst-ridden body. 

After a few minutes the crisp fresh air begins to alleviate my thick-headedness and I refocus on my current plight.  I check my watch, 11:45 a.m.  So far at least, I’m satisfied with my progress and estimate that I’ve covered close to ten miles since leaving Graves Park, with a further sixteen miles to the Kinder Scout bolt-hole.  Of course I regret not staying on the bus, but in my quest for anonymity, throwing up would undoubtedly have left an unwanted impression on both the driver and the other passengers.  In any case, I console myself, I’d never planned to catch the bus, and I’m probably several miles ahead of my original schedule. 

I get to my feet too quickly and feel light-headed as I study the landscape around me.  At the far side of the field is a wooden stile leading to a narrow track that winds around an area of raised ground and heads off in the general direction of Kinder Scout away to the north-west.  I take out my OS map, unfold it and lay it out on the grass, now almost dry in the strong sunlight.  As I bend over the map, obscured from the road by the dry stone wall, I become aware of a vehicle moving at speed just a few metres behind me.  I turn and cautiously raise my head in time to see a Volvo estate police car driving past purposefully, with no siren but blue lights flashing.  In the front passenger seat, I recognise Carmichael, the overweight copper from earlier.  I can feel the emotional roller coaster beginning again;
is it just a coincidence or are they onto me?
  After just a few seconds thought, there is little doubt in my mind: it’s almost certainly the latter.

With renewed urgency I turn my attention back to the map and begin to identify some of the key landmarks.  I find Kinder Scout, probably twelve miles away as the crow flies, and then trace back following the quickest and most secluded route: down Crookstone Hill, the south side of Ladybower Reservoir, staying within the cover of the tree line, follow the edge of Bamford Moor, on to Burbage Rocks, drop down behind Fox House pub, beyond Owler Bar and finally to my current position. I realise that if I follow the path at the far side of the stile, within half a mile it intersects with the route I’d originally intended to take had my plans not been changed by the bus journey.  Satisfied with the new route, I pack the map away, shove my jacket into the rucksack and cautiously set off across the field heading for the stile.  As I reach the far side of the field the unmistakable wail of a police siren blasts out, the sound distorted by the swirling wind.  I hurdle the stile and then jump down the far side and crouch behind the dry stone wall.  From my secluded spot I watch through a crack in the wall as a grey Vauxhall Vectra, driving at speed with flashing blue lights built into the grill, comes over the brow of the hill, the front wheels airborne, following in the direction of the earlier marked car.  The lingering doubts I’d wishfully clung on to evaporate: they’re after me.  With the Vectra out of sight, I wait, listening, alert to more cars arriving.  But after thirty seconds all is quiet, at least for now, and I continue along the path.

I’m stunned that the police have arrived so quickly.  Presumably one of the officers, or maybe even the bus driver, belatedly recognised me and raised the alarm.  Whatever the truth, I’ve little doubt that within the hour the area will be flooded with police, so it’s imperative that I make good progress.  Another sixteen miles or so to go,  I make a quick calculation: assuming three miles per hour, all being well I’ll be at Kinder Scout in a little over five hours and before darkness falls on this shortening autumn day.  I know it’s not a particularly fast pace but the profile of the land doesn’t lend itself to rapid progress; the meandering path is littered with loose rocks and boulders, and is further narrowed by swathes of coarse bracken demanding numerous minor detours.  For a few hundred metres I attempt a more direct route and cut through the centre of the thick bracken and heather, but within minutes I’m exhausted and my thigh muscles burn as I struggle to make headway through the unforgiving vegetation.  Despite the rain of the last few days, back on the main path the ground underfoot is dry, the walking conditions almost perfect.  Many years earlier I’d walked the same path with a group of school friends.  The rain had been torrential for days and we’d walked in ankle-deep mud for much of the way.  I suppose I should be thankful for the small mercy that the early thunderstorm has abated.

Within ten minutes I reach a fork in the path and bear to the right in the direction of Kinder Scout.  Having walked most of the route several times before, I’ve little use for the map anymore.  From my previous trips, I know that the ground is undulating but relatively flat for the first ten miles but the last five miles or so require a climb of close to a thousand feet.  I suspect it is the latter that will be the real test, but I’ll worry about it later – I need to get there first.  In any case, I remind myself, the more inhospitable the terrain, the more difficult it will be for my pursuers to catch me.  I lengthen my stride and identify a steady rhythm as I dip my head and shoulders into the strong breeze. 
Come on, Julian, come on,
Julian,
I urge, knowing that every step forward is a step closer to my sanctuary.

Walking along, I try and anticipate the likely strategy of my pursuers.  Presumably they’ll have stopped the bus within minutes and the driver will tell them where I got off.  From which point they’ll establish a search, most likely involving tracker dogs and a helicopter.  Like a few days earlier in Graves Park, my biggest fear is the eye in the sky, particularly in such an isolated area of countryside with few roads and little scope even for heavy-duty 4x4s.  For now all is quiet, but how long it stays that way is another matter.

I still feel feverish.  It’s like I’ve got a bad case of the flu, and the pain from my neck now extends into my shoulders and is certainly not helped by the constant rubbing of the rucksack.  I’m starting to get worried, really worried.  Maybe I’ll get too sick to carry on.  Maybe I won’t make it to my hideaway.  An old friend of my dad cut his hand while gardening, it got infected, and within three days he was in hospital, and after a week he was in the morgue.
Jesus Christ, Julian, stop over-reacting,
I admonish myself, sensing almost blind panic setting in.  With my mouth dry and lips sticking together, I stop as an underground stream surfaces in a small rocky clearing within the otherwise dense bracken.  Checking that I’m alone, I drop to my knees and fill my cupped hands with the crystal-clear water and pour it greedily into my mouth.  The ultimate natural spring water, the refreshing elixir immediately hits the spot, and just replenishing my body seems to help calm my mood.

After filling my water bottle I turn and look back in the direction of the road.  From the raised area of ground where I’m standing, I have an unimpeded view of several square miles.  I take out the binoculars from the front pocket of the rucksack and survey the scene through the powerful lenses.  The path I’ve just followed is completely deserted, but as I focus on the distance I can see two cars pulling up at the side of the road, the police Volvo with its fluorescent livery and the grey Vauxhall Vectra with blue lights still blazing away.  I drop to my belly and, hidden by the dense bracken, watch as three men get out, two in uniform and a third, from the Vectra, in a dark-coloured suit.  With his prominent overhanging beer belly, the distinctive form of PC Carmichael is unmistakeable.  He’s carrying a rolled-up newspaper, presumably the morning’s Metro, and seems involved in a heated exchange with the man in the suit, the latter gesticulating wildly. I struggle to focus on the suit’s face, and form a tripod, my elbows apart and planted firmly on the damp ground. Now that the figures are sharply in view, I immediately recognise him from his photo in the morning’s paper: with his weather-beaten features and bushy grey mop, Detective Superintendent Greene is very much the silver fox.  He’s clearly angry, his face flushed as he barks orders at the other two coppers and then into his mobile, before grabbing the paper from Carmichael and throwing it in his face.  The silver fox is not a happy man.

From the police pow-wow I scan the road towards Sheffield.  A mile or so back I can see a tractor pulling a trailer of livestock, but the road is otherwise deserted.  Tracing the road away from the city, in the far distance, just before it disappears from view beyond a sweeping bend, I can make out the number 218 single-decker parked at the roadside with a police car blocking its path.  The bus driver is leaning against the car smoking a cigarette as he talks to Glamour Boy, who’s taking notes in his little book.  For a final time I check back to the start of the path where Greene is still letting rip and jabbing his fingers into Carmichael’s chest.  I put the binoculars away, cautiously raise myself off the ground and onto my hands and knees, and then crawl through the bracken for close to fifteen metres, until I’m over the brow of the hill.  Satisfied that I’m way out of sight of the road, I get to my feet and continue along the path.  I have a weird feeling – anxious, of course, but also strangely exhilarated; the man-hunt is very much on, and with added impetus I begin to run.