hidden by the plastic menu.
‘So are you a regular at Lodges?’ asked Snow, for want of anything better to say.
‘Not as much as you,’ Bird observed slyly. ‘Anyway, I’m glad I’ve seen you. I’ve … I’ve got a bit of a proposition to put to you.’ He wrinkled his nose and shook his head. ‘Nah, not proposition. That sounds a bit dodgy, doesn’t it? It’s all this police speak we’re used to spouting. I meant an offer. An invitation …’
Snow took a sip of coffee and said nothing.
‘I thought it would be fun if you and I took a trip to Sherwood’s on Saturday night. What d’you say?’
Snow didn’t say anything for a while. He couldn’t believe Bird could be so crass. ‘I think not,’ he said evenly.
‘Why not?’
‘No.’
‘You’re not going to tell me it’s not your scene, are you?’ Bird’s voice had darkened now and the humour had left his eyes. ‘Because I know it is.’
‘We shall have to beg to differ then,’ said Snow, rising from his seat. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
Bird grabbed his arm tightly. ‘You can’t go like that. For fuck’s sake, Paul, you’ve got to live a little. You can’t live in a straitjacket all your life.’
Snow yanked his arm free from Bird’s grip. ‘As I said: thanks for the coffee,’ he said coolly, and walked away.
As he walked to the car park with his trolley, Paul Snow’s heart was beating furiously.
From the window of his cottage, Amos Rawcliffe watched with fascination as the Scenes of Crime Officers buzzed like flies around a jam pot, investigating the abandoned caravan on his land. They were dusting the door with powder, taking numerous photographs, popping in and out the van at regular intervals, carrying with them polythene bags containing items which they took away to a waiting police vehicle. The inspector and his assistant stood quietly nearby, watching this frenzied activity.
What on earth had that John Hall done? John Hall? Well, that obviously wasn’t his real name. He must have carried out some really terrible crime to warrant all this fevered activity. Amos suddenly shuddered as a thought struck him. Friggin’ hell, he could have been a killer. I could have been murdered in my bed. I reckon I’ve had a friggin’ lucky escape.
Outside, Snow stood quietly by the caravan while the SOCOs got on with the job. Sean Quigley, the officer in charge, appeared at the door and beckoned to him. ‘There’s nothing of obvious significance as I can see, sir,’ he said. ‘The guy has covered his tracks very carefully. It’s as though he was expecting the caravan to be found.’
Snow nodded to indicate that this assessment was in line with his own thinking.
‘However …’ Quigley allowed himself a brief smile. ‘I have found something.’ With a cheesy dramatic gesture, reminiscent of an end-of-the-pier magician, he produced a transparent polythene envelope from behind his back. It contained two black and white photographs. Snow took the envelope and scrutinised the photographs. One, the smaller of the two, was an informal snap of a young girl aged around eight years old. She was smiling at the camera in a shy way. It was very fuzzy and her features were in shadow but there was something about the girl that struck a chord with Snow – but he didn’t know what. He had seen a copy of the other photograph before. It was a more formal shot of the Marsdale Choir. What was rather chilling was that all the faces of the young girls, apart from two, had a black cross marked across their faces.
Snow gave an involuntary shudder.
‘Where did you find these?’
‘Under the knifebox in the kitchen drawer, covered up by an old tea towel.’
‘Get these tested for fingerprints and then let me have them pronto. I want to find the identity of this girl.’
‘Will do,’ said Quigley, puffing out his chest a little. He knew he had hit some kind of jackpot.
He sat near the school gates in his new van – new to him, that
‘So are you a regular at Lodges?’ asked Snow, for want of anything better to say.
‘Not as much as you,’ Bird observed slyly. ‘Anyway, I’m glad I’ve seen you. I’ve … I’ve got a bit of a proposition to put to you.’ He wrinkled his nose and shook his head. ‘Nah, not proposition. That sounds a bit dodgy, doesn’t it? It’s all this police speak we’re used to spouting. I meant an offer. An invitation …’
Snow took a sip of coffee and said nothing.
‘I thought it would be fun if you and I took a trip to Sherwood’s on Saturday night. What d’you say?’
Snow didn’t say anything for a while. He couldn’t believe Bird could be so crass. ‘I think not,’ he said evenly.
‘Why not?’
‘No.’
‘You’re not going to tell me it’s not your scene, are you?’ Bird’s voice had darkened now and the humour had left his eyes. ‘Because I know it is.’
‘We shall have to beg to differ then,’ said Snow, rising from his seat. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
Bird grabbed his arm tightly. ‘You can’t go like that. For fuck’s sake, Paul, you’ve got to live a little. You can’t live in a straitjacket all your life.’
Snow yanked his arm free from Bird’s grip. ‘As I said: thanks for the coffee,’ he said coolly, and walked away.
As he walked to the car park with his trolley, Paul Snow’s heart was beating furiously.
From the window of his cottage, Amos Rawcliffe watched with fascination as the Scenes of Crime Officers buzzed like flies around a jam pot, investigating the abandoned caravan on his land. They were dusting the door with powder, taking numerous photographs, popping in and out the van at regular intervals, carrying with them polythene bags containing items which they took away to a waiting police vehicle. The inspector and his assistant stood quietly nearby, watching this frenzied activity.
What on earth had that John Hall done? John Hall? Well, that obviously wasn’t his real name. He must have carried out some really terrible crime to warrant all this fevered activity. Amos suddenly shuddered as a thought struck him. Friggin’ hell, he could have been a killer. I could have been murdered in my bed. I reckon I’ve had a friggin’ lucky escape.
Outside, Snow stood quietly by the caravan while the SOCOs got on with the job. Sean Quigley, the officer in charge, appeared at the door and beckoned to him. ‘There’s nothing of obvious significance as I can see, sir,’ he said. ‘The guy has covered his tracks very carefully. It’s as though he was expecting the caravan to be found.’
Snow nodded to indicate that this assessment was in line with his own thinking.
‘However …’ Quigley allowed himself a brief smile. ‘I have found something.’ With a cheesy dramatic gesture, reminiscent of an end-of-the-pier magician, he produced a transparent polythene envelope from behind his back. It contained two black and white photographs. Snow took the envelope and scrutinised the photographs. One, the smaller of the two, was an informal snap of a young girl aged around eight years old. She was smiling at the camera in a shy way. It was very fuzzy and her features were in shadow but there was something about the girl that struck a chord with Snow – but he didn’t know what. He had seen a copy of the other photograph before. It was a more formal shot of the Marsdale Choir. What was rather chilling was that all the faces of the young girls, apart from two, had a black cross marked across their faces.
Snow gave an involuntary shudder.
‘Where did you find these?’
‘Under the knifebox in the kitchen drawer, covered up by an old tea towel.’
‘Get these tested for fingerprints and then let me have them pronto. I want to find the identity of this girl.’
‘Will do,’ said Quigley, puffing out his chest a little. He knew he had hit some kind of jackpot.
He sat near the school gates in his new van – new to him, that
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