Текст книги "Bolt-hole"

Автор книги: A. J. Oates

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

I now know for sure that I’m a police suspect, but thankfully there has been no suggestion that my possible whereabouts is known.  I’m slightly shocked by the fact that I’m the subject of a “man-hunt”, a slightly salacious term I’d always linked with the search for serial killers.  But with the police recommendation that I shouldn’t be approached, maybe they think I really am a danger to the public.

Sitting in the darkness, I spend the rest of the evening mulling over the key timing of my move to the bolt-hole at Kinder Scout.  Going back and forth over the pros and cons, I seem incapable of making a decision.  After listening to the 10:00 p.m. bulletin, and with no new developments, I can procrastinate no longer.  Set the agenda ... don’t just react to it, I silently preach, and then finally make the decision: wait thirty-six hours to get fully rested before the twenty-five mile journey, and then make my move early morning, day after tomorrow.  With my mind made up, I almost immediately begin to relax, and with a wave of tiredness overcoming me I snuggle down into the sleeping bag, and shortly after I’m asleep.

–

Sleeping in short spells throughout the night, I wake to the slightest disturbance from outside.  I’m surprised at the extent of wildlife: the hooting owls and the tiny scratching paws on the ground next to the bolt-hole.  I only hope it isn’t rats – I’m not particularly squeamish but these vile critters have a certain hold over me.

During an episode of wakefulness, I take the opportunity to restock my drinking water.  Nervous of both the potential police presence and the rodent wildlife, I cautiously remove the rocks sealing the entrance of the drain and then crawl forward a little through the gap.  Leaning out at full stretch, I can just reach the fast flowing stream.  I hurriedly fill my bottle in the icy water and then empty out the second bottle containing the stale piss and give it a quick rinse.

About to crawl back inside the bolt-hole, I sense a sudden and almost silent movement away to my right. With a sharp, involuntary intake of breath I turn to face a pair of yellow slit-like eyes staring back at me just a few feet away.  Initially unsure what species it is, though certainly not human, I recognise as the moon slides from behind the cloud the form of a far-from-timid scruffy urban fox.  I smile to myself as the animal arrogantly turns its back on me and saunters off into the darkness.

I gratefully crawl back inside the bolt-hole, and with the entrance secured I switch on my torch to inspect the water.  Following the recent torrential rain, the sediment in the stream has been disturbed and my drinking water is slightly browner than I would have liked.  Under the limited torch light I filter the water through my handkerchief to remove the larger debris and then add the chlorine-releasing sterilising tablets.  Hopefully by morning most of the bugs will have been killed off; the shits are the last thing I need.

As first light begins to permeate the entrance of the drain, I switch on the radio for the 7:00 a.m. news.  Again I’m the main story, but there are no further developments or reports on my suspected whereabouts.  I don’t know whether I feel relieved or frustrated by the lack of news, probably somewhere in between.  In any case I have another preoccupation: my neck wound is increasingly painful, even with the slightest movement.  Reluctantly I peel off the bandage and then the blood-stained cotton wool beneath.  The skin around the wound is sore and the area of redness has doubled in size, probably now the dimensions of my palm at least.  As before, and despite the pain, I clean it thoroughly with baby-wipes and apply more antiseptic cream.

The pattern for the rest of the day revolves around the hourly news bulletins and the occasional food break.  Although the water levels in the stream are still coursing high, I can occasionally hear footsteps and the voices of recreational walkers as they venture on the path above the drain.  In the middle of the afternoon I overhear a lengthy conversation between two elderly female dog-walkers, who stop to chat directly over the bolt-hole.  They discuss numerous topics ranging from the increase in the cost of bread to the death of a mutual acquaintance, but to my surprise they don’t talk about the local murder and police hunt.  Clearly for some people life is continuing as normal – a concept I struggle to grasp.

I doze intermittently but most of the time my thoughts centre on the likely next move of the police and in particular Greene.  I suspect that by now he’ll have been through the case-notes from the hit-and-run and will no doubt have spoken to Patel and Shaw to get background information on me.  Thinking back and scrutinising my conversations with them, I certainly don’t remember giving away anything that was particularly relevant or that would provide an indication of my thinking or possible whereabouts.  Of course, once I’d begun to put elements of my plan for Musgrove’s demise in place, I made a conscious decision to keep my thoughts to myself.  But even before that time I was so emotionally flat that my responses to their questions were concise at best.

DI Patel was also pretty reserved with his views, and I struggle to imagine how he would describe me.  Only once did I get an impression of how he was thinking – when, ironically, we discussed the act of revenge.  The conversation took place about six weeks after the hit-and-run, and at a time when it was becoming clear that it was unlikely that anyone would be charged.  We were sitting in his office at Otley Road police station. “If you don’t mind me saying, Dr Scott, you seem to be taking this well.”

I’d been surprised by his frankness and paused for a moment before responding. “I’m not necessarily sure that I’d agree.  How would you expect me to react?”

Patel was quiet for a good ten seconds and at first I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he slowly lent forward in his chair. “From my experiences, different people react differently to major life stresses.  Some people seem to lose all sense of reason and their sole preoccupation is to exact some form of revenge at any cost to themselves or others.  Often there is no clear focus for their revenge and it’s directed inappropriately, not uncommonly at the police, as I know to my own cost.  Then there are others, they fall apart emotionally and give up on life, as if the precipitating event had irrevocably shattered their emotional fabric.  The third category, and that which you seem to belong to, is the stoical type.  They seem to accept what is happening without obviously seeking to blame everyone and everything, and give the impression that they are rebuilding their lives.”

At the time, I’d been surprised by the depth of his response and the fact that he’d clearly given the matter a great deal of thought.  I’m sure he wasn’t typical of most coppers, and I thought back to the psychology degree certificate on the wall of his office, perhaps illustrating the point.  Given the recent events, I wonder if he’s now revising his theory on the category to which I belong.

At the end of my second full day of life on the run I listen to the 10:00 p.m. news, and with no new developments I perform quick ablutions and then snuggle down into the warm sleeping bag.  Despite the pain in my neck, with the gentle rustling of the wind in the tree canopy playing a calming lullaby, within a few minutes my racing thoughts are interrupted and I’m asleep.

Chapter 6

In the darkness of the bolt-hole I check my watch for at least the fifth time in the last thirty minutes.  It’s still only 5:23 a.m. and already I’ve been awake for several hours.  My insomnia is partly due to anxiety over what the coming day will bring, but also a consequence of the worsening throbbing in my neck and the feverish and sickly feeling that has come on overnight.

With some reluctance I crawl out of the sleeping bag and into the cold drain.  I take care of necessities in the plastic bottle and then, with the chill of the damp air cutting through my shirt, I struggle to put on my thick waterproof jacket in the confined space.  I roll up my sleeping bag, cram it into its storage bag, and stow it in the top of the rucksack.  Other than my small radio, all my essentials are packed and the remainder of my stuff, now surplus to requirements, will be dumped early on in my journey.

 

Spying through the small hole between rocks at the drain entrance, there’s little in the way of cloud cover and I can clearly see the brilliant crescent of the new moon against the dark sky.  For now, at least, the forecasted rain has not materialised – not that I really care either way.  Despite my nausea, I force down the last tin of beans and some biscuits, essential fuel for the journey, and wash them down with water.

Wearing my thick Michelin-man jacket, the bolt-hole feels even more cramped than usual as I turn on the radio news.  The local station is now my news outlet of choice, as the national network has apparently lost interest and gives few updates on the story.  The bulletin begins and again the murder and man-hunt receive top billing.  I listen carefully, and neurotically scrutinise any change in wording or tone, or any subtle nuance that might provide an insight into the thinking of the police.  But other than a suspected sighting in Cardiff, there are no new developments and my decision is made: it’s time to go.

Fortune favours the brave, I whisper as I remove the rocks blocking the entrance and then clamber out, under the fallen tree trunk, to reach the outside world.  As soon as there’s enough headroom I stand upright in a slow and tentative fashion, partly in case I’m being watched but also because my spine feels crumpled after the days of cramped confinement.  Alone and unobserved, I vigorously massage my lower back as I try to relax my tense and knotted body, and then briefly jog on the spot, as if preparing for a long run.  After a few seconds, and feeling slightly less stiff, I drag the rucksack outside and place it on dry ground before heading back inside the bolt-hole.  I crawl to the far end of the drain and begin removing the piled-up rocks and soil with my bare hands.  After several minutes of digging, water from the higher stream starts to leak into the drain.  Initially a trickle, the flow steadily increases, and with the sleeves of my jacket getting splashed with dirty stream water I scramble backwards and out of the bottom end as the cavity of the drain begins to flood.  Who knows whether it’ll make much of a difference, but I can only hope that any potential forensic evidence will be washed away, leaving no clues as to my whereabouts in the last few days.

I pull up the hood of my jacket and secure it with the thick scarf – hopefully sufficient to hide my identity without looking like a bank robber on the way to a job.  Then, with some mixed feelings, I leave behind my temporary home and make my way up the steep winding path that meanders through the woods.  There is certainly the relief that the waiting is finally over and I can fill my lungs with fresh crisp oxygen rather than stagnant bolt-hole air, but I’m also anxious, knowing that I’m subjecting myself to risk and potential capture.  Within sixty seconds I reach the distinctive red bin for dog waste at the side of the path, and shove in my rubbish bag while trying to avoid getting my hand covered in canine crap.

With the early morning sunlight beginning to cut through the darkness and illuminate the path ahead, I can just make out the outline of a dog-walker approaching me a hundred metres or so in the distance.  A knot immediately forms in the pit of my stomach and, with the taste of baked beans lingering in my mouth, I have an almost overwhelming feeling of nausea.  I’ve mentally rehearsed this particular scenario; should I walk past without acknowledgement or nod briefly by way of greeting and then move on.  The social convention that requires two passing strangers to acknowledge each other in some contexts but not in others has always been a slight mystery to me, but in the current scenario, breaching convention and in anyway drawing unwanted attention would have greater significance than ever before.  Ultimately I decided on the latter, and to my relief the crossing is uneventful, the dog-walker giving a similarly brief nod, showing nothing in the way of recognition, and we go on our respective ways.  I feel disproportionately relieved, almost elated, that I’ve not been recognised, though in reality, in the semi-darkness, the chance of discovery is remote and I know there’ll be far greater risks ahead.

As the crow flies, from the bolt-hole to the boundary of the park is a little over a mile – or exactly 1.1 miles, as I’d measured with a ruler on the Ordnance Survey map.  To dissuade night-time vandals, the entire periphery of the park is surrounded by a barrier, either a ten-foot stone-built wall or metal railings topped with spikes, with the exits limited to six formal crossing points.  I head for the closest of the exits a little over 1.2 miles away.

Many times as a child I’d seen Sebastian Coe, the legendary middle-distance athlete, training on these very hills.  In his autobiography, he didn’t forget his adopted home city of Sheffield, and he referred to the isolation of his training sessions through the numerous parks of the city and then on to the Peak District beyond.  It is of course this very isolation that I now crave, and I suppose I try to tap into the fortitude and determination he showed to become Olympic champion in order to reach my own goal, albeit one far less honourable than his.

Continuing up through the woods, within a few minutes I reach a fork in the path; to the left are the cricket fields and the duck ponds beyond, but I take the branch to the right, leading me past a couple of bowling greens, a pitch-and-putt golf course, and then four tennis courts.  A popular area with dog-walkers, I’ve walked the path hundreds of times as a teenager with my own dog, and even now, some twenty years on, I can still remember some of the distinctive features of the massive oak and horse chestnut trees that line the route.  Other than a couple more dog-walkers, the area is quiet and I continue without incident, apart from a Jack Russell developing a friendly but, for me, unwanted attachment to my right leg.

As I stride past the tennis courts, deserted of even the most enthusiastic of players at this early hour, I can just see the park gates and immediately beyond them the headlights of the early-morning traffic on Meadowhead Road, a main access road into the city centre from the suburbs.  Continuing on, I gradually begin to make out the form of a stationary car, pale-coloured and maybe a Ford Focus, partially obscured by the massive stone gateposts of the park entrance.  As I move closer I can see a fluorescent yellow stripe down the side with dark-coloured lettering above it.  My anxiety levels escalate as I try to make out whether it’s a police car, possibly forming some kind of cordon?  Confident that I’ve not been spotted by the occupants, whoever they are, I contemplate turning and retracing my steps.  But whispering to myself, stay calm Julian, stay calm, I continue, knowing that if I’m going to make it to the Kinder Scout bolt-hole I’ll have to take risks, and in any case I need to know what’s out there and waiting for me.  Now within fifty metres of the car, I can see figures in the front seats, both of them wearing dark uniforms.  My heart is pounding and beads of cold sweat are running down my chest as my sympathetic nervous system – the flight and fight response – goes into overdrive.  I will myself to relax and take slow, deep, calming breaths as I walk towards the car.  Now just twenty metres away, my nervousness partially eases as the lettering becomes apparent – "Park Patrol" – and in smaller print underneath it: "Sheffield City Council Works Department”.  I suspect the “parkies”, as we called them as kids, are more interested in renegade dog-owners not clearing up after their canine buddies than fugitives wanted for murder.  With my head up, I confidently stride past the car.  To my relief the parkies never look up as they drink steaming coffee from a thermos flask.  I puff out my cheeks and let out a slow deep breath as I exit the park and then cross Meadowhead Road.

Having left Graves Park, and with a little over a mile covered, I feel my journey has started in earnest as I begin walking through the neighbouring residential area.  In my planning I’d always thought that the next few miles would be the most risky, since I follow a busy A-road passing through the built-up areas of Norton and then Lowedges.  If I can only reach Holmsfield, a semi-rural village on the outskirts of town, I’m sure there’s less chance of being recognised, and with walking clothes and rucksack on my back I’ll fit in with the ramblers heading for the picturesque footpaths that criss-cross the area.

I maintain a steady pace, knowing that I’ve a long day of walking ahead.  In my original contingency planning I’d considered catching a bus or even using a car, possibly a rental, stashed at a convenient point for me to pick up if required.  But all these alternatives had greater risks and the potential for leaving some sort of paper trail or forensic evidence leading back to me.  It was imperative that I kept my contingency plan as simple as possible, and walking via the numerous remote footpaths, although slower, seemed on balance to present less risk of capture.

Apart from my neck injury I’m generally in good physical shape, and I’m confident that if it’s down to fitness alone I won’t have a problem.  But I know that luck and perhaps a chance encounter will play a big part in whether I’m spotted.  With the rush hour approaching, the traffic is getting heavier – but perhaps surprisingly, despite my underlying apprehension and the pain in my neck, I’m actually beginning to enjoy the walk and have the sense of satisfaction that I’m taking matters into my own hands.  Periodically I think of my boys, and then picture Musgrove’s sly face, and I know I have to make it to Kinder Scout.  I simply can’t let my sons down.

An hour after leaving the bolt-hole I’ve covered a little over three miles.  I’m satisfied with my progress and, so far at least, I’ve received nothing more than cursory glances from the occasional passing motorist.  There are few other pedestrians, and thankfully they appear concentrated on their day ahead rather than on me.  Rounding a bend in the busy main road, I see a small shopping precinct with a Chinese takeaway, off licence, fruit shop and newsagent’s.  As I approach the newsagent’s, a man in his twenties, dangling a cigarette from the corner of his mouth, is hauling a stack of magazines from the pavement and into the shop.  A few seconds later he returns to the street carrying an advertising board for the local morning paper.  He rips off the front page of yesterday’s paper, and standing on it to avoid the wind carrying it away, he replaces it with today’s edition. I glance down and read the banner headline: “Local Man Wanted for Murder”. Below is a half-page photograph, partially obscured by the man’s foot but immediately recognisable as that of my university ID card.  My recent optimism dissipates in an instant and my emotions swing from one extreme to the other in a matter of seconds.  I’m not sure why it bothers me so much.  It certainly comes as no great surprise; I know from the radio bulletins that the story has had massive local publicity.  Perhaps it’s simply the fact of seeing it in black and white, as well as my photo plastered up for everyone to see, that reinforces the reality of my situation.

With despondency setting in I continue on, heading towards the outskirts of town.  In the near distance the sky is becoming increasingly overcast and the daylight that’s only just arrived appears to be regressing prematurely, almost reflecting my mood.  The weather forecast had suggested the strong probability of rain, and it’s no surprise that within minutes a fine drizzle begins to fall and is quickly replaced by a torrential downpour as the skies dramatically open up.  I’m grateful for my waterproof jacket and stop briefly to put on the accompanying rainproof over-trousers.  The rain continues unabated for the next thirty minutes as the skies become even darker and the cars switch on their full headlights.  After a further few minutes the sound of the rain pounding the pavement is superseded by the occasional thunderclap, at first in the distance but progressively closer.  Then, without warning and instantly blinding, a brilliant flash of light hits the ground no more than five metres away, and then almost immediately the pavement underfoot begins to vibrate.  Stunned, it takes a few seconds for me to realise that it’s a lightning bolt, a little too close for comfort.  As I struggle to gather my thoughts, a second lightning flash hits, refuting the claim that lightning doesn’t strike the same spot twice.  Suspecting there’s a good chance I could be toasted by a further bolt, I sprint over to an empty bus shelter fifty metres or so down the road.

Waiting for the storm to pass, I take off the rucksack and perch on the far-from-comfortable metal bench.  Already I’m exhausted, the short sprint taking far more out of me than I would’ve expected.  The nausea is returning and my skin is burning up; I suspect that my earlier fear that the neck wound is getting infected is becoming a reality.

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.