Текст книги "Bolt-hole"

Автор книги: A. J. Oates

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

My next destination is Graves Park and a place I know well from my childhood.  At close to 250 acres it’s the largest park in Sheffield, and for a kid growing up in the area it was heaven: a vast expanse of grass and woodland, as well as sports fields, children’s play areas, and even a small farm with a rare breeds centre.  All those years ago, I’d learnt every short-cut and cycle route through the park, and during the long summer holidays I’d built bivouacs and camped overnight in the woods with school friends.  Now, with Graves Park less than half a mile away and the entrance almost in view, I begin to relax a little for the first time, knowing that I’m close to home turf.  But almost as if my newly found optimism has tempted fate, as I round a bend in the road and half a dozen or so car lengths in front, a police car is parked at the curb-side. Too close for me to consider turning back, I’ve got no choice but to continue on towards it. Stay calm, Julian, stay calm, I whisper to myself as I reach the car and glance through the rear window.  The driver and front-seat passenger are facing each other and showing no obvious interest in my presence.  Relieved, I take a slow deep breath with my destination now so tantalisingly close; but again, as if my renewed optimism is provoking the Gods, the passenger door of a taxi parked in front of the police car abruptly opens.  I have a moment to react, and I brake hard and swerve to avoid a collision, but my front wheel skids on the greasy road and I lose control.  Within a split second I’m flying over the handle bars and then the side of my head and shoulder impacts hard with the tarmac.  I’m momentarily stunned, lying face-down in the road with the bike next to me and the front wheel spinning but buckled and useless.

The passenger of the taxi, a woman in her twenties, clearly drunk, stumbles towards me in ridiculous six-inch heels. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she screams hysterically.  She begins pulling at my arm as she tries to help me up.  But as I get to my hands and knees and turn to face her, she stops short with a look of horror and then shrieks, “You’re bleeding, oh my God, oh my God … You’re bleeding.”

I glance down at my grey top to find it soaked in blood that’s been dripping from my neck wound, the hanky and scarf having clearly provided no effective barrier.  Dazed, I struggle to my feet, and shrugging off her attentions I say, "Don't worry. I'm fine, I'm fine.”

Behind me I hear a car door open, and then another, and vaguely familiar, female voice.  “Sir, are you okay? ... Do you need help?”

In the corner of my eye a woman picks up my bike and places it on the pavement.  Then I hear the crackle of a police radio, which cuts through the fuzziness of my thinking.  I turn around to see a woman whose face bears a look of recognition that I suspect mirrors my own: WPC Shaw.  My thoughts are now more lucid but I still can’t quite believe what’s happening.  How can I explain all the blood? There’s no way she’ll believe it’s all from the bike accident.

I know I can’t take any chances. I turn, and sprint in the direction of the park, leaving behind the bike and a stunned Shaw.  Within seconds a car door slams, followed by the sound of grit flying up as the tyres on the police car lose traction on the wet road.  Shaw isn’t stupid; I can’t be sure of course, but I suspect she’s already pieced it together and I’m the prime suspect in the attack on Musgrove.

I’m exhausted both physically and mentally but keep pushing myself on, knowing that my freedom depends on it.  I picture Musgrove’s face: although I know he must be dead, my capture would be a victory for him and there’s no way I can let it happen.  Within sixty seconds I reach the heavy iron gates at the entrance to the park.  I frantically pull and push, desperately trying to get through, but after a wasted few seconds I see the heavy chain and padlock, not in use on my previous reconnaissance trips and now blocking my way.  Without conscious thought I scale the gate, a good metre above head height, and then lower myself down on the far side just as Shaw’s car arrives.  For a fraction of a second I lock my gaze with her through the windscreen of the car.  Etched in her face is what seems like a mixture of disbelief and sympathy.  I look away – I suppose with a sort of embarrassment – and then head into the darkness of the park.

The full moon flits from behind the thick cloud cover and provides just enough light to pick out the route through the children’s playground and then up the steep, heavily wooded hillside.  In the near distance I can hear more sirens as reinforcements join the hunt, and briefly glance over my shoulder to see the pursuing officers decamp and give chase some twenty-five metres behind me on the far side of the gate.  I pass the thicket of dense rhododendron bushes where I’d planned to ditch my already redundant bike, and then head up the steep winding path.  The rain is torrential and drives into my face while the wind whistles aggressively through the trees above my head, almost as if it’s bombarding me with insults.  The narrow path is covered in mud and wet leaves, and even in my cross-country trainers with their heavy-duty tread, I slip continuously and often resort to scrambling on all fours.  Some way behind, I can hear the police presence, with their heavy breathing and the distorted voices and crackles from their radios.

I leave the path and run through the adjacent ice-cold, knee-deep stream, hoping to hide my scent from the tracker dogs that no doubt will soon follow.  I picture the TV images from those fly-on-the-wall police documentaries, of a hapless criminal viewed brilliant white against a black background with the infrared camera as a police dog takes a bite out of his genitals.  There’s no way I’m going to let it happen to me.

After a few minutes of hard running the sounds of the chasing officers begin to fade.  Despite the freezing water sapping my strength, I surge forwards with renewed belief, now so close to my temporary bolt-hole and potential safety.  But then, without warning, from over the brow of the hill comes the sound of helicopter blades, and the police chopper flies at speed just above the treetops directly over me with a great shaft of light projecting downwards.  Shit, Shit, Shit, surely they must have seen me.  The helicopter turns and starts a second pass, but just a second before the beam of light illuminates my presence, I dart behind a fallen tree trunk and scramble into my bolt-hole, cracking my forehead on the low ceiling as I enter.  My head begins to throb and blood drips into my eyes, but this discomfort is the least of my worries.

I lie motionless in the hideaway, barely daring to breathe for what seems like hours, though when I check my watch I find that it has been less than thirty minutes.  The helicopter continues to sweep overhead, clearly audible above the driving rain and swollen streams but never seeming to linger directly over the bolt-hole.  There is the occasional raised voice accompanied by barking dogs, presumably police German Shepherds attempting to track my scent.  My heart continues to pound, in part due to my exertions of the last few hours but mainly, I suspect, on account of my fear of discovery.

After a further thirty minutes I cautiously switch on my small torch, all the time keeping my hand over the lens to limit the scope of the light-beam. The bolt-hole is a five-metre-long drainage tunnel, approximately half a metre wide and half a metre high.  It’s just large enough for me to crawl into; there’s little room for manoeuvre or to turn round.  The conduit runs several feet underground and connects two nearby streams, but only ever comes into use after heavy rain or thawing snow.  The walls and floor consist of loosely arranged and irregular pieces of stone.  From above, I’m completely hidden from the searchlights and infrared camera of the helicopter, and at ground level the entrance at the lower end is obscured by fallen tree trunks while the top end is completely blocked by the rocks and earth that have accumulated since I played here as a kid with my friends many years earlier.

As the minutes turn into hours, for the first time since leaving the bedsit my emotions aren’t running at fever pitch.  I begin to feel some small degree of relief as the sounds of the police presence become quieter and more infrequent and my pursuers move further away.  With a long and hopefully undisturbed night ahead I attempt to get more comfortable; no easy task, with the low ceiling, hewn of rough stone, making sitting upright impossible.  Fumbling in the confined space, I find the tarpaulin sheet and bin liner that I’d dropped off the night before, and I lay out the former to cover the damp ground.  I then open the water-tight bin liner containing a rucksack, and begin unpacking the contents: spare clothing, walking boots, toiletries, a small radio, a few tins of baked beans and three large bottles of drinking water.  The task becomes increasingly difficult with my cold, numb fingers, and I begin to shiver uncontrollably.  My clothes are soaked with sweat, rain and blood, and with the adrenaline rush from the chase subsiding, the effects of hypothermia are setting in with a vengeance.  As quickly as I can in the tight space, and with my awkward frozen fingers, I strip off the wet clothes and trainers, replace them with the dry clothes from the rucksack, and then crawl into the sleeping bag.  I pull its insulating hood over my head and then tie the draw-cord tight.

As my expired breath warms the sleeping bag, the shivering of my aching body finally comes under control.  After thirty minutes, I loosen the cord around the hood and breathe the relatively fresh air of the bolt-hole.  Feeling more comfortable, I begin to reflect on the events of the previous few hours.  I’d hoped, of course, that things would have been so different and that I’d be tucked up in bed at the airport hotel by now in readiness for my flight in the morning, but that’s not going to happen.  It has always been my nature to be self-critical, often to a degree that’s counter-productive, as Helen would argue, and my first instinct is to direct the anger at myself.  I curse my stupidity in cutting my neck and surely leaving behind DNA evidence.  I’d planned meticulously and practised swinging the blade at a pumpkin, a substitute for Musgrove’s head, but had not rehearsed pulling the blade from inside my jacket.  But despite my frustrations, I have sufficient insight to acknowledge that I also had bad luck: the police arriving outside the pub at the wrong time, and then being witnessed by WPC Shaw later on.  Gradually, as my post mortem continues, my irritation begins to dissipate.  I suppose I have to be grateful for the foresight of my rigorous planning and the inbuilt contingencies such as the bike stashed in the toilets along with the spare clothes – and, of course, the current bolt-hole.  I suspect that if it wasn’t for my current hideaway, I would be in police custody by now, facing a murder charge.

By 3:00 a.m. and after close to four hours in the bolt-hole, the shouting police and barking dogs have gone silent and the drone from the helicopter blades has ceased.  In the solitude and silence I begin to feel the first pangs of hunger, and realising that I’ve not eaten for close to twenty-four hours, I dig out my small camping spoon from the bottom of the rucksack and devour cold baked beans from the can and some dry crackers.  Not the greatest meal I’ve ever had, but I still feel better for it.

I lie back down in the sleeping bag and listen to the driving rain and the wind blowing fiercely through the trees.  It remains near pitch black in the drain, with the only light coming from the illuminated face of my watch.  Although I doubt much natural light will ever permeate the bolt-hole, for the world outside it will be dawn in a couple of hours.  In the darkness and current weather conditions I’ve been able to evade capture, but I fear that, with the daybreak, it may well be a different matter.