Текст книги "Bolt-hole"

Автор книги: A. J. Oates

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4

Crammed inside my tiny bolt-hole, I’m mentally and physically exhausted but ever conscious of the slightest disturbance from the outside world. I suspect there is little chance of meaningful sleep.  With sunrise now just a couple of hours away, I close my eyes knowing that I should at least try to get some rest.  Within a few minutes my consciousness begins to ebb from the present and my thoughts drift back a few months.

WPC Shaw drove me from the morgue to arrive home a little after 5.00 a.m.  It was still dark but the milkman had already started on his rounds and bottles were waiting on the doorstep.  Shaw had tried to start a conversation, perhaps attempting to ease her own discomfort as much as mine, but I was in no mood to chat and she quickly realised that her efforts were futile.  I suspected that she was relatively inexperienced and doubted that she’d ever been involved in anything like it before.  Ironically I began to feel almost sorry for her, believing that in some way I was responsible for her current discomfort.  She’d offered to come in to make a drink but I declined for both our sakes.  I wanted to be alone with my thoughts and attempt to rationalise the events of those last few hours.

Once at home I kicked off my shoes and headed straight to the spare bedroom.  I climbed, fully clothed, into bed and closed my eyes but the images of my boys seemed more real than ever.  Thinking the chances of sleep were minimal, I was surprised to wake several hours later to the sounds of the neighbourhood children heading off to school, their lively chatter coming up from the road below the bedroom window.  In my first few seconds of wakefulness the events of the previous evening weren’t immediately apparent, and then, as if being bludgeoned with a hammer, they suddenly and painfully flooded my thinking.  My breathing rate escalated, my heart pounded, and for a weird few seconds I thought I was going to die; not that I really cared.  What did I have to live for?

Over the next few minutes I slowly began to compose myself, and as I lay in the spare bed I could just hear the 8:00 a.m. news broadcast, barely audible, coming from the alarm clock radio in the master bedroom.  During the weekdays we’d always woken to the 7:00 a.m. news on Radio 4, and the alarm had still to switch itself off.  The Prime Minister was in India, a policeman had been stabbed in Manchester, and there were job losses at a midlands car plant.  There was no mention of a hit-and-run killing five.

After thirty minutes of wallowing I willed myself out of bed.  Struggling to summon the strength to move, it felt as if I’d aged fifty years overnight.  In discrete stages I headed for the bathroom, all the time giving myself commands and encouragement: bed covers off, sit up, feet over the edge, standing position, right foot forward, left foot forward.  I shuffled past the open door of the bedroom that my beautiful sons had shared, and the enormity of the loss was overwhelming. I repeatedly felt that an emotional rock bottom had been reached; but then a memory or thought would be triggered and the bar of desolation would be lowered further.

I showered trying to cleanse myself in the near-scalding water.  I’d read how rape victims spent hours in the shower attempting to purify themselves of their attacker, and as I stood with the water pounding my body I could identify with those emotions; I felt violated, if not physically, then psychologically.  After thirty minutes I stepped out of the shower with my skin reddened and close to blistering in places.  I struggled to decide what clothes to wear, before settling on a suitably subdued navy blue top and jeans.

In the empty and unnervingly quiet house I headed downstairs to the kitchen.  I made tea and slowly drank it while listening to the radio and waiting for the next local news bulletin.  We never used to listen to local radio, with the banal approach of the presenters making even the most serious issues appear trivial, but it was different now; may be they’d pick up on the story more quickly than their national counterparts.  Though part of me couldn’t bear the prospect of my life story being played out in the media, I held onto the hope that it would, in some way, be therapeutic.  Of course, I was deluding myself.

At 10:00 a.m. the news bulletin began, and the hit-and-run was now the main story.  Very few details were provided.  No names, no ages, just the time and the place followed by an appeal for witnesses from a Detective Inspector Patel.  As the news moved onto the next item I turned off the radio just as the phone started to ring.  Not ready for conversation, I was sorely tempted to let the answering machine pick up, but then thinking that it might be news from the police, I answered.  I recognised the voice immediately, it was Debbie from work. “Julian, what are you doing at home, we’re waiting for you and Bob’s …”

Debbie generally meant well but was intrusive at the best of times, and I was in no mood to give details.  I cut her off mid sentence. "I’m sorry but I've got some kind of stomach bug, I won’t be in today but I'll speak to you later.”  I put the phone down without giving her any time to respond, but before I’d a chance to sit down, it rang again. Jesus, Debbie, what the hell do you want?

Irritated, I picked up the phone but said nothing and waited for her to reprimand me for my abruptness.  “… Hello, this is DI Patel from Otley Road Police Station. Could I speak to Mr … I’m sorry, Dr, Julian Scott, please?”

“Yes, erm … Yes, I’m Julian Scott.”  I answered falteringly.

“Sorry to bother you, Dr Scott, I’m the lead investigating officer on the case involving the death of your family.  I know that this is a terrible time for you but I’d like to ask you some questions if that’s okay?”

I struggled to connect brain and mouth in synchrony, “Erm … erm yes, yes. Okay … though I’m not sure how much more I can tell you but ... erm ... anyway I’ve got some questions myself.”

“When is convenient for you?  I can come and visit you today at home, or if you prefer you can come to the station – whatever’s best for you.”

I was surprised that he wanted to meet so soon, though in a way I suppose I was grateful; at least it would give me something to do.  But the thought of having police, or anybody else for that matter, in my house didn’t appeal. “Yes, that’s fine, but I’d prefer to come to you if that’s okay?”

“No problem, can you make it around noon?” responded DI Patel, and continued without giving me time to answer, “Make your way to the front desk and ask for me there.”

“Okay, thank you. I’ll see you then.”

I put the phone down and slowly made my way back to the sofa.  The clock on the mantelpiece indicated 10:30 a.m., though I knew it was running a couple of minutes fast.  The police station was only ten minutes’ drive and I had well over an hour to kill.  I lay on the sofa staring at the light fitting on the ceiling.  My emotions were in turmoil and I wasn’t used to the out-of-control feeling.  I’ve always liked order.  Even as a child I’d driven my mother mad; the night before school, my uniform had to be ironed and neatly stacked at the end of the bed along with polished shoes.  As an adult my obsessions only got worse and I’d always thought I had some kind of obsessive compulsive disorder, though this wasn’t formally diagnosed.  Perhaps that’s why I’d been drawn to a career in science and research, with its firmly established rules and logic.  But with everything that had happened I couldn’t even make sense of my own feelings, sadness, anger, frustration, guilt, all at the same time.  Nothing made sense anymore.  I’m sure a psychologist would argue it was completely normal given what I’d been through, but it certainly didn’t feel normal to me.

The time dragged by and I still had another thirty minutes before the meeting with DI Patel but I desperately needed to get out of the house.  I briefly considered walking to use up time and in the hope that the fresh air would breathe some life into me.  But almost immediately I realised that the route on foot would go past the church and the site of the accident.  There was no way I could face it, at least not yet.  In the end I decided to drive, and, with little traffic on the road, and even taking the long way around, I pulled into the police station car park still twenty minutes early.

I’d driven past Otley Road Police Station numerous times on the way to work, though never had cause to go inside.  It was the divisional headquarters, an imposing six-storey building with numerous massive radio aerials on the roof.  Surrounded by a ten-foot metal fence topped with sharp spikes, it was clearly designed to withstand a serious public disturbance.  I parked in one of the many empty spaces of the public area of the car park and then made my way to the entrance marked “Enquiries”.  I gave my name to the PC sitting behind a glass security screen on the front desk.  My presence seemed to be expected: he made a brief phone call before asking me to take a seat in the waiting area.

I sat for less than a couple of minutes before a man wearing a smart, expensive-looking grey suit came through a door at the side of the front desk.  He was probably about the same age as me and had short cropped hair receding in the front.  He approached me extending his hand. “Dr Scott, thank you for coming.  I’m Detective Inspector Patel.  This must be a terrible time for you.”

I took his firm grip and attempted a polite smile in response. “Yes, it’s all come as a shock – to say the least.”

Patel nodded “Yes, yes ... Let’s go up to my office, we can talk better there.”

We headed back through the door he’d just come out of and then up two flights of stairs.  Despite the modern appearance of the building from the outside, the décor let it down.  The carpet was stained and worn and the walls were a dirty grey colour with just the odd patch of the original pale blue emulsion showing through.  Patel’s office was in the corner of a much bigger, open-plan office space.  This larger work area was bustling with activity, with people either on the phone or tapping away at computer terminals, but nobody looked up as we passed by.

Patel’s personal office was a cramped affair containing a desk which was far too big for the small room and overflowing with folders and loose papers.  He moved a further pile of papers from a spare chair in the corner and pulled it up, gesturing for me to sit.  “Can I get you tea or coffee?”

I shook my head, “No, no thank you.”

Patel then took a seat opposite me on the other side of the desk.  Behind him on the wall was a collection of framed photographs, mostly in his police uniform, and also several certificates.  One of the certificates in particular caught my attention:

Nikesh Patel

B. Sc., Psychology

First Class Honours.

University of Sheffield

It crossed my mind that it might be a cunning ploy to unnerve suspects – maybe they’d crack under the pressure at the prospect of him tapping into their inner psyche.  It almost made me grateful that I had nothing to hide.  Patel picked up the phone and punched in four digits. “Jane, can you come through?”

Within twenty seconds a woman in her mid twenties appeared at the door and Patel introduced her as DC Drife.  She nodded her head respectfully and then stepped outside for a moment, returned with a chair, and then negotiated her way through the piles of paperwork on the floor, taking a seat in the corner behind Patel.  The room was not designed to seat three people in comfort and I began to feel claustrophobic and undid the next button down on my shirt.  Patel appeared to notice my discomfort and opened the small window behind him, although it barely made any difference to the stagnant air.

With everyone seated, he began asking basic personal details of my family: date of birth, place of birth, address, occupation, school, etc.  My recollections of the previous night were vague at best, but I was pretty sure I’d given much of the same information already.  DC Drife sat at the back, not saying a word and diligently taking notes.  Patel then asked me to go through the events of the evening.  Why had we gone to the restaurant? What time had we left? Why had the others walked? Why had I driven home? What time was it when I realised there was a problem?

At first my thoughts were sluggish, dulled by recent events.  I struggled to respond to the most basic of questions, even pondering to recall my own date of birth.  But as the interview went on I began to feel more comfortable and my responses were more articulate and free-flowing.  Patel nodded intently with my every response, almost as if each snippet of information was going to be crucial in solving the case.

After twenty minutes or so he again checked that I didn’t want a drink, before continuing: “After leaving your house and on the way to the church, did you see anybody, or anything, out of the norm?”

I tried to piece things together, but it all seemed so fragmented.  “No, nothing out of the ordinary … at least as far as I can remember. It’s all a bit of a blur to be quite honest.  It was very quiet though, I’m sure I didn’t see anybody else.”

Again Patel continued his nodding, deep in thought. “And the red pick-up truck, had you ever seen it before?”

I thought for a few seconds. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t.  It’s obviously very distinctive and I’m sure I would’ve remembered.  The name down the side though, William’s Building Supplies, that’s certainly familiar, but I’m not sure where from – maybe just an advert in the local paper, something like that.”

Patel nodded thoughtfully. “And can you think of anyone who may have wanted to harm your family?”

“What do you mean?” I responded angrily, demonstrating my irritation for the first time. “No, I can’t bloody think of anyone who would want to kill my wife or my little boys.”  I was stunned by his question and the way he’d just casually slipped it in.  I’d never considered the whole thing anything other than a hit-and-run, and it seemed completely bizarre that I might know who was responsible.

Patel seemed surprised by my outburst and sat back in his chair, clearly aware of my feelings. “I’m sorry but I have to ask these questions.”

I’d had enough, and although it had only been a little over half an hour I was beginning to feel tired and was grateful when Patel signalled the end of the questioning. “Okay, that’s fine, I’ve nothing more for now.  Is there anything you want to add that you think might be important to the enquiry?” I shook my head.  Patel went on: “Okay, the other reason I wanted to speak to you is to let you know how things are progressing.”

I sat forward in the chair; this was what I’d come for. “At this initial stage we believe it is a relatively straight forward hit-and-run, albeit with hugely tragic consequences.  We believe that the pick-up truck at the scene had probably been stolen, but we are waiting for a report from the scenes-of-crime officers with information on fingerprints and other forensic evidence ...”

I interjected, “But what about the driver, have you spoken to him yet?”

“Unfortunately the driver of the vehicle had disappeared from the scene by the time the first motorist arrived.  We’ll be interviewing the owner of the pick-up truck this afternoon and it may shed light on events.  Again, unfortunately, without a witness to the incident it can be difficult to find the person responsible in a case like this ...”

“In a case like this!” I interrupted angrily. “To me this is not just a case, to me it’s about who killed my family.  I hope you realize that, inspector.”

Patel looked sheepish, “I do appreciate that, Dr Scott, and I assure you we won’t lose sight of that fact.”  After a few seconds he continued: “We’ve made a local media appeal, and in the meantime ...”

Tired and irritated, I again interrupted him. “We just have to wait.”  “I’m afraid so.” said Patel calmly.

It was quiet for the next thirty seconds, before Patel broke the silence. “Okay, thank you for coming, I know this is a very difficult time for you.”  I stood to leave and then remembered DC Drife in the corner, who hadn’t said a word throughout the meeting.  She nodded politely at me, and then Patel led me down the same staircase we’d come up, then through the reception area and to the front door. “Once again, very sorry about your loss.  I’ll contact you as soon as I hear anything, and if you remember anything please get in touch.”  He gave me his business card and we went our separate ways.

I returned to the car, fastened the seatbelt, and sat for several minutes, going over the wording of the conversation as close to verbatim as I could remember.  Most of his questions had been fairly predictable, though I’d been surprised by his query about the pick-up truck and, bizarrely, whether anyone might want my family dead – a thought that was inconceivable.  In any event, Patel had not filled me with any great optimism that they’d be able to track down the driver.  My thoughts were interrupted as a car pulled into the parking slot next to me, and I had the sudden need to get home and be in my own space.  Swelled by parents on the school run, the traffic was heavier than on my arrival and it flickered across my mind that I should get back home to see the kids. But I quickly and painfully realised that it was no longer the case.

Chapter 5

My first morning in the Graves Park bolt-hole, I wake from a deep slumber with a shaft of brilliant light striking my face and gently warming my skin.  In my barely wakened state, it’s not unlike the comforting sensation of lying on a beach and, with eyes closed, seeing the red glow of the sun beyond.  But within seconds reality kicks-in and remembering where I am, and the events of the previous night, I fear that I’ve been discovered and that my pursuers are illuminating my presence with a torch beam.  My heart pounds as the anxiety is explosively reignited, and I sit bolt upright, cracking my forehead on the low ceiling.  As I blink away the pain, relief comes with the realization that it’s only sunlight streaming through a slit between the rocks at the entrance of the drain.  Breathing more easily, I check my watch in the cone of light, 10:05 a.m.  Amazingly I’ve been dead to the world for the last five hours.

Viewing my temporary home in the daylight reminds me how small a space it is.  I struggle to adjust my position before cautiously spying through the narrow aperture between the rocks at the entrance.  My view is restricted to a small section of clear blue sky and tree canopy with autumn leaves falling.  The rain has finally stopped and the only sounds come from the nearby stream with the water level running high and the gentle blowing of the wind through the branches.  Mercifully, there are no helicopter blades whirring, German Shepherds barking, or policemen shouting.  Clearly I’ve not been discovered, and refreshed after the long sleep, my mood and optimism has improved beyond recognition from just a few hours earlier.

I rub my face with my hands and feel a fine layer of salt on the skin from the dried sweat.  My mouth is dry and my furred tongue sticks to my teeth; a mouth like the bottom of a birdcage, I’ve heard it described.  I reach for a bottle of water and take several large gulps, savouring the icy cold water running down my throat as I begin to replenish my dehydrated body.  I’m starving hungry, and open a packet of chocolate digestives before greedily eating two sandwiched together.  The biscuits only serve to clog up my mouth again, and I wash them away with more water.

My thoughts return to the events of the previous evening and I can’t help but think that, if everything had gone to plan, I would be on the plane by now and no doubt eating an unpalatable airline meal out of a plastic tray.  In my current mood, though, I’m happy enough with chocolate biscuits and water.

I attempt to sit up a little, and crouching awkwardly I piss in one of the two-litre water bottles, now a dedicated pee-collecting receptacle.  My urine is dark orange in colour and fills the confined space of the bolt-hole with the harsh smell of ammonia, a function of my dehydration from the exertions of the previous night.  Next I gingerly remove the scarf from around my neck while holding the blood stained handkerchief beneath it in place.  The hanky is stuck firmly to a chunk of flesh hanging below my jaw line.  Wincing with pain, I splash the hanky with cold water until it is soaked through and then try to peel it slowly away from my skin.  The pain is excruciating, and I can’t believe it didn’t hurt more at the time of its infliction.  With the filthy hanky finally off, I use a tiny mirror from one of Helen’s compacts for guidance and pick at the dry blood with baby-wipes.  By the time I’ve finished, the wound is bleeding again, although not as heavily as the night before.  I smear it in stinging antiseptic cream before packing it with cotton wool and wrapping it in a crepe bandage from my first aid kit.  I inspect my handiwork in the mirror: not quite Florence Nightingale, but it’ll suffice.

With medical issues dealt with, my thoughts turn to the next phase of my plan and the optimal time to move on to the more secure and longer-term bolt-hole at Kinder Scout in the Peak District National Park.  In my current abode I have sufficient food stockpiled for at least a week and, with the nearby streams, an adequate supply of fresh drinking water is not a limiting factor.  But in my contingency planning, the Graves Park bolt-hole had only ever been intended as a short-term measure.  It’s far too close to busy footpaths, risking discovery at any time, and with its low ceiling and limited space it is impractical for anything more than a temporary stop-gap.  I need to make the twenty-five-mile journey to the isolated Kinder Scout, where discovery is less likely and I’ve got food stock-piled for at least six months.  An intellectual assessment suggests a balance has to be reached: leaving the current drain too early will risk capture if the area is still swarming with police; alternatively, staying too long will increase the risk of accidental discovery by a member of the public, possibly a dog-walker.  Reluctantly I also admit that there is an emotional aspect to my decision-making.  Of course I’m keen to move on to Kinder Scout, so I’m one step closer to my ultimate freedom, but at the same time the previous night’s pursuit by the police has left me exhausted and badly shaken, and I certainly don’t want to expose myself to a similar event.

To make an informed and rational judgement I need to know what’s going on in the outside world.  More specifically, have the police identified me as the prime suspect, and if so, do they have any leads as to my whereabouts?  In terms of the former, from my work in the lab I know that the PCR fingerprinting analysis of the forensic DNA evidence won’t be available yet, but a description from the officers at the scene and my unfortunate run-in with WPC Shaw will certainly point the finger at me.  I reach over to the front pocket of the rucksack and pull out a small DAB/FM radio, about the size and weight of a pack of playing cards, which I’d bought a few days earlier.  I’d already preset the FM and digital stations for both BBC Radio 4 and the local stations BBC Radio Sheffield and Radio Hallam.  I switch on to the latter, and with an earpiece in situ the reception on the digital station is crystal clear. A song is playing: a Barbara Streisand number, I think.

I absently listen to the rest of the ditty before the news starts at 11:00 a.m.  The female newsreader begins: “… a man in his thirties was brutally attacked and killed in the Linton Green area of the city at around 10:45 p.m. yesterday evening.  The name of the man has not yet been released; however, police are appealing for witnesses to come forward.  The senior investigating officer, Detective Superintendent Adam Greene, is holding a press conference this afternoon and we’ll bring you more details as we have them.  In other news ...”  The newsreader goes on to discuss the visit of Prince Charles to the city and I turn the radio off.

For the next couple of hours I ponder the short broadcast.  I’ve now got confirmation that Musgrove is dead, although it’s no great surprise, given the extent of the injuries I inflicted.  In other aspects the news report provides no further useful information, and the police, at least via the media, have not acknowledged that I’m a suspect in the attack or even released a description of the attacker.  Little the wiser, I lie back down on the sleeping bag, nibble at a chocolate digestive and wait for the next bulletin.

I turn on to Radio 4 with the World at One broadcast just starting.  The first news piece describes a terrorist act in Iraq, followed by a change in the Bank of England interest rate. I don’t listen to the specific details as my concentration begins to lapse, but the next item immediately grabs my attention: “… a man has been attacked with a machete close to the city centre of Sheffield.  The man, whose name has not yet been released, is in his thirties and was killed instantly.”  The news anchor-man then links to a reporter at the scene who elaborates: “Details are sketchy but it is believed that the murdered man was suspected to have been the driver involved in a hit-and-run incident in the city almost six months ago.  This resulted in the death of the parents, wife and two young children of a local man, Dr Julian Scott.  Police were unable to bring charges at the time due to insufficient forensic evidence and failure of witnesses to come forward.  I understand from my police sources that Julian Scott, a thirty-seven-year-old academic at the university, is wanted for questioning by the police, although as yet they have not formally stated that he is a suspect.  Back to you in the studio.”  The broadcast goes on to cover a proposed rail strike, and I switch the radio off.

Staring at the roof of the drain a foot or so above my head, I contemplate the latest developments. Of course there’s still no formal police confirmation that I’m wanted for questioning, but the bulletin makes it pretty clear that this is the case, particularly if the “source” is to be believed.  I have to be prepared for the worst, irrespective of what information is released by the media, and I’ve no doubt that by now my description will have been circulated to police forces nationwide, as well as airports and ports.  I have to accept that I’m a fugitive and on the run for murder, a concept which in part fills me with sheer terror, but perhaps bizarrely is also half appealing, and I can’t help but smile to myself.

 

–

Inside the bolt-hole the light is already beginning to fail as it approaches late afternoon.  I feel some sense of relief as the darkness descends and provides a blanket of reassurance; I’ve not been discovered in daylight and I’m confident the chances of discovery after nightfall are further reduced.  Expecting the worst, I’ve been surprised at how uneventful the day has been; presumably the heavy rainfall of the night before has washed away my tracks and scent from the pursuing police dogs.  Only once did my anxiety escalate with the distinctive hum of a helicopter passing low overhead, but to my relief it was gone within seconds and did not return.

Throughout the afternoon I tune in to the news bulletins but no new details are released and there is much recycling of what had already been said.  In between news updates I eat more of the baked beans and crackers, wrapping the waste in a double layer of plastic bags to reduce the chances of police dogs picking up an erroneous scent.  I still feel dehydrated, and drink more of the water.  I’ve already moved onto my last bottle, and I know that I’ll have to venture outside to one of the nearby streams if I am to stay here for much longer.

When not snacking or listening to the radio bulletins I doze intermittently, but my thoughts are too anxiety-ridden for any meaningful sleep.  I’m quickly beginning to recognise that the problem with solitude, and one to which I’ll have to acclimatize, is that it gives one too much time to think.  This has led to anxiety and negative thoughts, and despite my best efforts to think positively, my good mood of the early morning is beginning to dissipate.  Perhaps ironically, I’ve always liked my own company, but in the past the experience was underpinned by the knowledge that, if I wanted, I could find company, be it family or colleagues. Now, though, my solitude is absolute.

The next significant information comes when I switch on the radio for the 6:00 p.m. national news on Radio 4.  The murder is now the lead story.  “A man-hunt is underway for university academic Dr Julian Scott, who is wanted by police in connection with the death of local man, James Musgrove.  It is believed that thirty-six-year-old Musgrove was the driver of a hit-and-run vehicle and was responsible for the death of Dr Scott’s wife, two young sons and both parents.  At a press conference this afternoon, Detective Superintendent Adam Greene has urged anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of Julian Scott to come forward, but the public are advised not to approach him directly.”  The newsreader moves on to the next story and I flick over to the local station and a male voice in mid-sentence: “… at this stage we are keeping an open mind.  The last sighting of Dr Scott was in the city shortly after the incident, but it’s possible that he is already further afield.  We have, of course, alerted our colleagues at police forces nationwide and overseas.”  The voice of a female newsreader then comes on: “That was Detective Superintendent Adam Greene. Now, in further news, in the city, Prince Charles is visiting ...”  I turn off the radio.  No disrespect to the future monarch but I have more pressing concerns.