be able to come up with something to help us trace him.’
‘What’s he done? Why are you after him?’ asked Rawcliffe, a touch of fear in his voice.
‘Nothing that need bother you at the moment,’ said Snow, not unkindly. ‘But I must ask you not to venture into the caravan till our boys have had a chance to inspect it. OK?’
Rawcliffe nodded, his eyes wide with apprehension. ‘I knew he were a wrong ’un.’
Once outside the little cottage, Snow wandered to the garden wall and gazed at the old caravan. What secrets did it hold? Would something inside lead them to the killer? It was very tempting to clamber over the wall and have a look inside but he knew such an action was against the rules. He would be contaminating what was possibly a crime scene. He would just have to be patient.
Mrs Eva Hodge could not afford to be fussy regarding her ‘paying guests’, as she referred to her lodgers, for she knew her ‘facilities’ were of the basic quality. A small room with bed, cheap wardrobe, chest of drawers and the use of a communal bathroom and toilet. However, as she gazed at the man on her doorstep she was indeed tempted to be fussy. He was scruffy and somewhat dishevelled with the minimum of luggage – this was usual with her transient customers, fellows living on the edge of solvency – but there was something rather chilling in his demeanour and in particular in those pale watery eyes, which, as they gazed at her, seemed to be seeing something else, something beyond her. His voice was low and rasping, almost a whisper, as though he was unused to speaking. She wondered if he was an ex-con.
‘How long are you wanting to stay?’ Eva Hodge asked.
The man shrugged. ‘A couple of weeks, I guess,’ he said and held up a clutch of pound notes. ‘That should cover it?’ he said.
At the sight of the money, Mrs Hodges’ growing resolve to refuse him melted away. ‘I don’t allow visitors or cooking in the rooms,’ she said, her hand snaking out to lift the money from the man’s hand.
The man nodded and edged forward into the hallway.
THIRTEEN
In many ways, Paul Snow was a creature of habit. There were certain routines built into his life which he adhered to whenever possible. Sometimes the dictates of his job meant he had to alter or adjust these routines and this caused him some dismay. He had long adopted the habit of carrying out his weekly shop at Lodges supermarket in Birkby early on Thursday morning before he went into work. He hated shopping for groceries and household items and he made sure that he bought all he needed for the next seven days with one visit. There was no dilly-dallying down the aisles for him, checking the relative prices of goods. He got in there, bought his stuff and left. And that’s what he intended to do on this occasion until a hand fell on his shoulder by the meat counter.
‘I can recommend the apple and pork sausages. They’re particularly tasty,’ said a voice in his ear, which broke in on his focused concentration.
Snow turned awkwardly to find himself facing Colin Bird. Playfully Bird rammed Snow’s trolley with his. ‘Snap,’ he grinned.
‘Hello,’ said Snow, a little nonplussed to see Bird in this unusual environment.
‘Do you come here often?’ quipped Bird.
Snow smiled. ‘Not if I can help it,’ he said.
‘Bugger, isn’t it, shopping for one?’
Snow nodded. ‘Shopping, full stop.’
‘You nearly done?’
Snow gazed at his trolley. ‘Sort of. Just one or two more things …’
‘What say I treat you to a coffee in the little cafe. See you there in ten minutes, eh? Good man.’
He went before Snow had chance to respond.
Fifteen minutes later he was sitting at a cramped table in the cafe area with Colin Bird, who had not only bought the coffees but also what Snow regarded as a revolting synthetic cream doughnut. He had no intention of eating it all. He took a small mouthful to be polite and then slipped the plate to the side,
‘What’s he done? Why are you after him?’ asked Rawcliffe, a touch of fear in his voice.
‘Nothing that need bother you at the moment,’ said Snow, not unkindly. ‘But I must ask you not to venture into the caravan till our boys have had a chance to inspect it. OK?’
Rawcliffe nodded, his eyes wide with apprehension. ‘I knew he were a wrong ’un.’
Once outside the little cottage, Snow wandered to the garden wall and gazed at the old caravan. What secrets did it hold? Would something inside lead them to the killer? It was very tempting to clamber over the wall and have a look inside but he knew such an action was against the rules. He would be contaminating what was possibly a crime scene. He would just have to be patient.
Mrs Eva Hodge could not afford to be fussy regarding her ‘paying guests’, as she referred to her lodgers, for she knew her ‘facilities’ were of the basic quality. A small room with bed, cheap wardrobe, chest of drawers and the use of a communal bathroom and toilet. However, as she gazed at the man on her doorstep she was indeed tempted to be fussy. He was scruffy and somewhat dishevelled with the minimum of luggage – this was usual with her transient customers, fellows living on the edge of solvency – but there was something rather chilling in his demeanour and in particular in those pale watery eyes, which, as they gazed at her, seemed to be seeing something else, something beyond her. His voice was low and rasping, almost a whisper, as though he was unused to speaking. She wondered if he was an ex-con.
‘How long are you wanting to stay?’ Eva Hodge asked.
The man shrugged. ‘A couple of weeks, I guess,’ he said and held up a clutch of pound notes. ‘That should cover it?’ he said.
At the sight of the money, Mrs Hodges’ growing resolve to refuse him melted away. ‘I don’t allow visitors or cooking in the rooms,’ she said, her hand snaking out to lift the money from the man’s hand.
The man nodded and edged forward into the hallway.
THIRTEEN
In many ways, Paul Snow was a creature of habit. There were certain routines built into his life which he adhered to whenever possible. Sometimes the dictates of his job meant he had to alter or adjust these routines and this caused him some dismay. He had long adopted the habit of carrying out his weekly shop at Lodges supermarket in Birkby early on Thursday morning before he went into work. He hated shopping for groceries and household items and he made sure that he bought all he needed for the next seven days with one visit. There was no dilly-dallying down the aisles for him, checking the relative prices of goods. He got in there, bought his stuff and left. And that’s what he intended to do on this occasion until a hand fell on his shoulder by the meat counter.
‘I can recommend the apple and pork sausages. They’re particularly tasty,’ said a voice in his ear, which broke in on his focused concentration.
Snow turned awkwardly to find himself facing Colin Bird. Playfully Bird rammed Snow’s trolley with his. ‘Snap,’ he grinned.
‘Hello,’ said Snow, a little nonplussed to see Bird in this unusual environment.
‘Do you come here often?’ quipped Bird.
Snow smiled. ‘Not if I can help it,’ he said.
‘Bugger, isn’t it, shopping for one?’
Snow nodded. ‘Shopping, full stop.’
‘You nearly done?’
Snow gazed at his trolley. ‘Sort of. Just one or two more things …’
‘What say I treat you to a coffee in the little cafe. See you there in ten minutes, eh? Good man.’
He went before Snow had chance to respond.
Fifteen minutes later he was sitting at a cramped table in the cafe area with Colin Bird, who had not only bought the coffees but also what Snow regarded as a revolting synthetic cream doughnut. He had no intention of eating it all. He took a small mouthful to be polite and then slipped the plate to the side,
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