Class Murder Read online

  He avoided quiet side roads and kept instead to the busier main road where no one paid any attention to an inconspicuous young man in a long black coat carrying a large holdall. He had always studied how to look unremarkable. Reaching Queen Street, he slowed his pace to a brisk walk and made his way to the station where he turned left to cross Leeman Road. Head lowered, he reached the river, aware that with every passing second his enemies were mustering their forces. He could imagine urgent calls going out to helicopter pilots and dog trainers. Really, with the police so focused on his capture, other criminals could be having a field day if they only knew.

  Quickly he made his way past the railway bridge to a quiet part of the river. The weather was on his side, because there weren’t many people around. But once the manhunt was under way, he would be unable to continue moving around under the radar. Time was running out. If he didn’t escape soon, the chance would be lost. He hurried on until he reached his small motor boat. By moving fast, he should be able to cross the river without leaving any trail. A sunken boat carried no scent.

  Humming to himself, he slithered down the slope beside the bridge, out of sight of prying eyes. As he clambered into the boat and pushed off, he heard the roar of a helicopter. Sweating, he pulled on the cord to start the engine. Nothing happened. His heart pounding, he yanked it as hard as he could. This time the engine spluttered and whirred. Hardly able to breathe for fear, he lay low in the boat as it sped across the churning water. It wasn’t far to the other bank, but he couldn’t land immediately opposite his point of departure as the police were bound to take their dogs over the water to cast around for his scent on the other side. He pictured dogs circling, sniffing at the ground, and shivered.

  The little craft was swift, and before long he found a suitable site for landing. Dragging the boat out of the water and on to the path underneath an overhanging tree, he tore at the planks with his gloved hands without making any impact. Fishing his knife out of the bag he slashed at the wood, ripping through it repeatedly until the bottom of the boat lay in splintered shreds. It would never float now. Glancing along the path in both directions, he shoved the ruined vessel into the water and wedged a large boulder under the engine. The boat hung on the surface for a moment before sinking slowly down out of sight, taking his scent with it.

  Partly concealed by the branches of the tree, he replaced the knife in his bag and exchanged his dark cap for a shaggy grey wig. After putting on a pair of metal-rimmed spectacles with plain glass lenses, he turned his reversible raincoat inside out, and pulled on a pair of old wellington boots he had bought from a charity shop. They were slightly too large but he had never worn them before, and they would help mask the scent of his feet. For some time he had been preparing for just such an eventuality by washing his clothes and towels in baking soda, and showering with scent-eliminating soap and shampoo manufactured specifically for deer hunters, which he bought online. He hoped his precautions would suffice to protect him from pursuit as he shuffled rapidly back towards the town, where the profusion of human scents was likely to confuse any dog still following his trail.

  Having left one river bank as a youngish man, he had emerged on the far side as a man in his late seventies who walked with a slight stoop. Not only was his disguise impenetrable, he had done all he could to avoid leaving a scent; and best of all he still had the gun safe and dry in his haversack. As though coming to his aid a light snow began to fall, making any scent even more difficult to pick up. The police had done well to find his house, but he was too clever for them. They wouldn’t find him again.

  58

  Even though they lived close to the city centre, the growing popularity of Airbnb had impacted on Nell and Bert’s establishment, and money was becoming increasingly tight. Added to that, there was always a quiet period between New Year and the annual Viking Festival in February. Not expecting any guests, Nell almost missed the bell when it rang. Answering the door, she found an old man on the doorstep. His grey hair was dripping on to the drenched shoulders of his beige overcoat, and she wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that his socks were wet too. All in all he was a sorry sight.

  ‘Yes? Can I help you?’

  ‘Your sign says you have a vacancy?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she answered quickly, brightening up at the prospect of a guest. ‘We do have a room available. Now come on in out of the cold and wet and I’ll put the kettle on. It’s perishing out there.’

  As the old man shuffled inside, she noticed with approval how he wiped his boots very thoroughly on the welcome mat. She was even happier when he booked a room for a week and stumped up the cash in advance.

  ‘I always think it makes life easier, paying bills in cash,’ he explained almost apologetically. ‘I can’t be doing with credit cards. It doesn’t feel like real money, does it? And besides, credit has caused a great deal of damaging uncertainty to the economy as a whole, as well as to individuals who can’t always be relied on to behave responsibly when it comes to dealing with money. The problem with buying on credit is – well, I won’t bore you with my opinions. I have a lot to say about it. In fact, I’ve written several books on the subject.’ He gave a bashful smile. ‘Suffice it to say that when I listen to the way the youngsters talk these days it worries me greatly, it really does. We can’t keep on living on credit. Sooner or later we’re going to end up in trouble. One chancellor after another has ignored the warning signs.’

  He rambled on for a while in a similar vein as he drank his tea, but Nell hardly listened to the old man’s lecture. As soon as she could get away, she hurried off to stuff the wad of cash in the safe before showing her new guest to his room.

  ‘Are you all right with stairs?’ she asked, panicking that she might lose the money she had just received.

  ‘That’s not a problem,’ he was quick to reassure her. ‘The Oxford college where I’ve been lecturing is positively riddled with steep narrow staircases. It’s all rather antiquated, but it keeps me fit.’

  Relieved, she returned his smile. Despite his white hair and stooping figure, he had a surprisingly youthful face. He must have good genes, she thought enviously as she led the way upstairs.

  ‘Here you are. This is the room I was telling you about. I hope it suits you.’

  He hadn’t asked to see the room before parting with his cash, which was unusual. She supposed it was his age that made him naive, and besides, professors were notoriously absent-minded.

  ‘This is fine,’ he replied.

  He didn’t seem very interested when she told him about the breakfast arrangements, but he thanked her politely.

  ‘I wish to be left alone while I’m working. Even when I’m not writing I’ll be thinking, and I don’t like to be bothered when I’m occupied with a book, so please make sure I’m not interrupted under any circumstances. I hope that’s clear?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He thanked her again. ‘And please don’t take any notice if you hear me leave the house at odd times. Walking helps me to concentrate, so I often go out, even at night. Looking up at the stars helps me think.’

  Assuring the old man he wouldn’t be disturbed, Nell left him.

  ‘So what’s he like, this new guest?’ her husband enquired when they were settled comfortably in front of the television later that evening.

  Nell thought before answering. The old man had seemed very friendly on arrival, but once he had seen his room he had made it absolutely clear that he didn’t wish to be disturbed under any circumstances.

  ‘He says he’s writing a book,’ she told Bert. ‘And he wants to be left alone to get on with it. He doesn’t want people bothering him.’

  Bert grunted. ‘A book, eh? What’s it about then? Not one of your slushy romances, I bet.’ He laughed easily.

  ‘It was something to do with international economics. He did explain it to me, but to be honest I didn’t have a cl
ue what he was talking about. I stopped listening.’

  ‘Oh well, as long as he’s paying us, that’s all the economics we need from him.’ Bert laughed again.

  ‘And he said he won’t necessarily want breakfast, and he might go out at odd times,’ she added. ‘He said he likes to take a walk and he often goes out at night because the quiet helps him think.’ She laughed. ‘He seems to think the city’s quiet after dark. Let’s hope he isn’t planning on going into town on a Saturday night.’

  ‘He’s not writing a book about hen parties, then?’

  They both laughed.

  ‘No, I told you, international economics, whatever that means. That’s what he said, anyway. He seems a harmless enough old soul and he’s certainly going to be quiet.’

  The light was still on in the professor’s room when they went up to bed.

  ‘Writing his book, I expect,’ she whispered.

  ‘Let’s hope he carries on writing it here for a long time,’ he whispered back. ‘We can certainly do with the money. See? Didn’t I say all along there was no need to worry? I knew something would turn up.’

  Passing his door they heard their new guest moving about in his room and hurried on up the stairs to their own room, careful not to make any noise. They didn’t want to disturb him.

  59

  By the time Geraldine pulled into the kerb a few doors along from the address she had been given, the pavement in front of it had been cordoned off and two uniformed officers were standing guard. That was an encouraging sign, indicating that something significant was taking place inside the house. At last the investigative team seemed to be making progress, although what all this activity signified was as yet unclear. It was raining as she climbed out of her car, a cold steady sleet that was turning to snow. She had left her umbrella at home and the cold and wet were making her shiver. Holding her collar up around her neck with one hand, and thrusting the other in her jacket pocket, she hurried towards the house.

  A small group of bystanders had already gathered. Huddled together in winter coats they were stamping their feet and watching in silence, apart from a strident reporter who seemed to have assumed the role of spokesperson. Geraldine studied the loudmouthed woman as she approached. In her late thirties, with peroxide blond hair and bright red lipstick to match her bright red jacket, she was standing at the front of the crowd of onlookers, waving a microphone at one of the uniformed officers who stood, impervious to her screeching.

  ‘Who lives here? Who lives here? Who lives here?’ she kept repeating as Geraldine drew near. ‘Stop right there!’ she cried out, pouncing on Geraldine as she was about to pass through the cordon. ‘What’s going on? Has there been another murder? Have you caught The Slasher? The public have a right to know!’

  An aggrieved murmur from the crowd accompanied her demands.

  ‘And the police have a right to get on with the job without being harassed,’ Geraldine snapped, as she pushed past the reporter. ‘You’ll just have to wait for the press conference. We’re not here to provide you with a scoop.’ She uttered the last word with as pronounced a sneer as she could muster.

  ‘The public have a right to know!’ the blond woman insisted.

  ‘The public have a right to be protected, and your interference is making that more difficult.’

  Despite her intense irritation, Geraldine stopped short of threatening to have the reporter arrested for hindering the police in their work. The woman would no doubt have relished the opportunity to star in her own news story. As she walked through the gate, Geraldine heard one of the bystanders busily telling the reporter that she lived in the next house.

  ‘And who lives here?’ the blond woman asked.

  Geraldine paused to listen.

  ‘I can’t say I know him. He’s a very private person, keeps himself to himself.’

  Seeing Geraldine standing by the gate, the reporter edged the neighbour further away, out of earshot. Geraldine shrugged. If they had really discovered where the killer lived, everyone in the street would be visited by police officers soon enough, asking for information about their neighbour. And in any case, whatever gossip the neighbour shared with the blond reporter would no doubt be available online soon enough, with whatever embellishments the reporter chose to add.

  Before Geraldine stepped inside the house she was issued with protective clothing.

  ‘There was no one here?’ she asked, as she pulled on her white oversuit.

  ‘No, the place was empty when we got here. We seem to have the right place. There’s a cornucopia of incriminating evidence, but it looks as though he got wind of our arrival and scarpered in a hurry.’

  ‘Is it a crime scene?’

  A murder was always shocking. In the wake of three other victims, it would be devastating.

  ‘No, we haven’t found any bodies, not yet at least. They’re outside checking the garden now.’

  Geraldine nodded. ‘So what have you found?’

  ‘Loads,’ he replied. ‘Most of it’s already been bagged up.’

  ‘Did you find any weapons?’

  ‘No, nothing like that, I’m afraid,’ the officer replied, clearly thinking along the same lines as Geraldine.

  Wherever the killer had gone, he had taken his gun with him.

  Glancing up, Geraldine saw Ian’s tall, broad frame picking his way carefully down the stairs, his feet protected by plastic shoe covers. He nodded when he caught sight of her in the hall.

  ‘This is his house all right,’ he said. ‘We’re waiting for confirmation from the DNA lab, but that shouldn’t take long. And you won’t believe what we found in the garage. Come on, I’ll show you. We can talk as we go.’

  The garage door was open. While Geraldine had been inside the house the pavement had been cleared to allow a tow truck to back into the drive. A vehicle covered in a tarpaulin was being attached to the truck, prior to being taken away for forensic examination.

  ‘There goes his van,’ Ian said. ‘The back was full of black bin liners stuffed with bloodstained clothes. Three bags in fact, all tied up very neatly. I’m guessing we already know whose blood it is.’ He paused. ‘Give me three names.’

  Geraldine nodded without speaking.

  ‘All we need to do now is find the slippery bastard. How the hell did he manage to avoid giving a DNA sample? Oh well, we’ve driven him out of his lair, but where has he gone? He seems to have vanished.’ Ian’s voice was taut with suppressed fury. ‘He’s clever.’

  ‘We have to find him soon,’ Geraldine said. ‘He can’t have gone far.’

  ‘Then where the hell is he?’

  For a moment neither of them spoke. The silence between them was broken by the shrill voice of the blond reporter.

  ‘What’s under that cover? What are you hiding? My readers have a right to know!’

  ‘Oh, do shut up,’ Geraldine muttered under her breath. ‘As if we haven’t got enough to worry about.’

  Leaving the scene of crime officers to continue their search of the property, Geraldine followed Ian back to the police station. It was bustling with activity. Everyone seemed to be on the phone, researching online sites, or typing up reports. For once, no one was standing around chatting. By the end of the afternoon confirmation had been received that the house where Tim Hathaway had been living was covered in DNA matching the unidentified traces they had already found. There could no longer be any doubt that they had found their killer’s house. They just didn’t know where he was.

  ‘He can’t have gone far,’ Eileen said with grim satisfaction, echoing what Geraldine had said earlier.

  Helicopters were circling the skies, sniffer dogs were pursuing the suspect’s scent which was now readily available, and every station, roadside services, seaport and airport had been alerted, along with information circulated to every police force in the country.


  ‘He won’t get away,’ Eileen repeated.

  ‘What if he’s not on the move at all?’ Geraldine asked. ‘What if he’s in hiding somewhere nearby planning to stay out of sight until the search is called off?’

  ‘The search won’t be called off until we find him,’ Eileen retorted sharply.

  But they all knew they couldn’t maintain such a labour-intensive manhunt indefinitely. And in the meantime the suspect remained on the run, and armed. He might kill again at any moment and they were powerless to stop him.

  60

  There was nothing more to be done that evening. Too tired to join Ian and Naomi for a drink, Geraldine went straight home. She was so exhausted, she wondered whether she was sickening for a cold or flu bug. Wrapped in a blanket and sipping a cup of piping hot cocoa, she felt warm for the first time that day. It was a few days since she had last spoken to her twin so she called her. Helena’s phone went straight to voicemail. With a sigh, Geraldine turned on the television and tried to focus on a light-hearted quiz show, but she was too tired to take it in. The investigation wasn’t over yet, but they had identified the killer and Eileen was right. It was only a matter of time before they caught up with him. The danger was all but over. She went to bed early and slept well for the first time in weeks.

  Having breakfast in her flat the next day, she did her best to ignore a headache throbbing behind her eyes as she sat gazing out over the river. The buildings on the far side of the black water were almost hidden in an early morning fog, and she could see no activity on the river at all. She had no appetite but munched her way miserably through a bowl of cereal, determined not to fall ill. This was only her first investigation since her relocation to York and she was just beginning to make a favourable impression on her detective chief inspector. She couldn’t afford to weaken now.

  Before leaving for work, she tried Helena’s phone again. Still there was no answer. Concerned that Helena might be struggling to cope after her period of rehabilitation in a drugs clinic, she called one of her ex-colleagues on the Met, who had been a good friend to her in London. Sam was surprised and pleased to hear from her, but clearly irritated to hear the reason for Geraldine’s call.