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  Nash raised his head. ‘I thought we’d a press liaison officer?’

  Ruth made a sneezing gesture as she left the room.

  Nash smiled as he reached to answer his phone.

  ‘Nash, Ramirez here. Did you think I’d miss you so much, you arranged for me to have a corpse or two ready for my return?’

  Nash grinned at the pathologist’s sarcasm. ‘I don’t want you to lose your touch for lack of practice,’ he agreed gravely.

  Ramirez snorted. ‘Little chance of that with you around. Anyway, I can’t spend all day gossiping. For all I know you could have arranged the slaughter of a football team. Or a rugby team,’ he added caustically. ‘I want to get on with the post-mortems; can you send someone through?’

  ‘Certainly, Professor, I’ll send DC Andrews across. She should be there in about half an hour.’

  Later that afternoon when Lisa returned, she relayed a message from the pathologist. ‘He said to tell you there’s something you should know. At first glance he assumed they’d been killed by that well known cliché, the left-handed killer. The wounds are deeper on one side than the other, that’s how you can tell. But he’s not convinced that’s the case. He said don’t rule anyone out because they’re not left-handed. As for the rest, you’ll have to wait for his report.’

  Close to Leeds city centre there are a number of squares of Victorian terrace houses, once the domain of the managerial classes involved principally in textiles and engineering, two of the driving forces in the city’s rise to prominence. These dwellings had long been converted to office suites, and it was here that some of the smaller professional firms based their operations. Carnforth & Lancaster, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, was one such organization. Nowhere in Leeds were old-fashioned values more rigidly observed. As one of the newer generation of lawyers remarked, ‘You expect the clerks to be sitting at roll-top desks scratching away with quill pens. You want to ask to speak to Bob Cratchit.’

  Albert Carnforth, senior partner in the practice, started work prompt at 9 a.m. every morning. His first twenty minutes in the office would be spent reading the Yorkshire Post, the only newspaper as far as Carnforth was concerned. One of the pages he scrutinized carefully was the obituaries section. Contrary to rumour circulating amongst some of the more flippant members of staff, Carnforth wasn’t checking to see whether he was listed there. Tuesday morning was no exception, until the intercom buzzed. ‘Miss Burns?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Carnforth?’

  ‘Would you come into my office and bring your keys?’

  Hilary Burns didn’t hurry. Hurry wasn’t something they did at C & L. When she entered the office, Carnforth was waiting by the document safe, keys in hand. On his desk lay the morning paper, the headline declaring ‘Prominent Leeds Solicitor Slain’. Together they put their keys into the twin locks of the massive door and turned them. Carnforth opened the door and removed a slim envelope.

  The envelope had been signed and sealed. Carnforth took it across to his desk. ‘I was entrusted with this quite recently and given instructions not to open it except in certain circumstances. It would appear that time has arrived sooner than anticipated.’ He slit the envelope with his paper knife and removed a sheet of A4 paper, which he read before up-turning the envelope. A single key fell on to his blotter. ‘It appears we have to remove the contents from a safety deposit box at the bank and dispatch them to a chosen recipient. This is the key. I’ll attend to the matter this afternoon. Thank you, Miss Burns.’

  He watched as Miss Burns walked back to her own office. He admired the long graceful shape of her legs, the rhythmical sway of her hips, as he’d been admiring them for the last twenty-five years. Fortunately, for both his peace of mind and hers, she was completely unaware of his admiration.

  Later, Carnforth examined the contents of the safety deposit box. These comprised a large addressed envelope together with a smaller one addressed to him. He read the instructions in his envelope, then summoned Miss Burns.

  He handed her the larger envelope. ‘Kindly see that this is taken to the post office. It must go by registered mail.’

  Myers and Nell were picking up again. This time they were back on home ground, at Winfield Estate. The morning progressed well, with Nell distinguishing herself, much to the chagrin of one or two other pickers-up.

  Sir Maurice arranged the drives so the morning session finished close to the house. The break was a social event as much as a meal. With everyone from the most distinguished VIPs to the youngest beater on an equal footing. The food was held back until every member of the gamekeeper’s staff arrived.

  During the wait Myers listened with a modicum of interest to the various conversations going on around him. These were mostly about politics, a subject that bored him. The group he was closest to comprised Sir Maurice, a treasury minister, the Lord Lieutenant and the chief constable of the neighbouring county. They were discussing a forthcoming by-election. ‘Our man’s a virtual shoo-in,’ the treasury minister told them. ‘The party’s very keen for him to get into the House as soon as possible. The Prime Minister’s already indicated he’ll only stand once more, and we need a replacement of the right calibre. He fits the bill to a T.’

  ‘Do you think he’s got what it takes to go all the way?’ the Lord Lieutenant asked. ‘The House can be a crucible for those not used to the rough and tumble of politics. I assume you know a bit about his background?’

  ‘He’s got a track record second to none in industry. He’s made himself a fortune, not a small one either. He started with nothing. Built his own company from scratch, had years of struggle before he got where he is now. It’s the sort of rags-to-riches story voters and media alike love. Self-made men are the type they trust.’

  ‘I must admit you hardly seem to pass a building site that hasn’t either got his company name or his biggest rival’s sign on it,’ the chief constable agreed.

  The minister lowered his voice. ‘Strictly between ourselves, I understand he’s about to launch a hostile takeover bid for his competitor; but that’s highly confidential of course.’

  The rest of the group nodded understandingly. Myers concealed a smile. The fact that they hadn’t mentioned any names seemed good security to them. However, they’d littered the conversation with clues. Perhaps it was as well he had little interest in such matters.

  As their conversation petered out Myers caught the tail end of another discussion, gorier in nature than politics. Two of the beaters were close by and were talking about a murder, or as Myers gleaned from what little he could hear, a double murder.

  He strained to hear, but as he did so Sir Maurice claimed him and insisted he joined their group who wanted to praise his dog. Whilst listening to their compliments Myers was only able to pick up snippets of the beaters’ talk. ‘Golden Bear, breakfast’, and ‘solicitor from Leeds, I think’, were the only words he could be sure of. They were enough.

  Sir Maurice laid a solicitous hand on his arm. ‘Are you all right, dear fellow? You’ve gone quite pale.’

  Myers recovered his wits. ‘Yes, Sir Maurice, I’m fine. I think I need a breath of fresh air. I’ll pop outside for a few minutes.’

  He walked out through the long french windows on to the broad stone terrace and stared at the rolling parkland that swept down to the lake; without seeing any of it. Had he heard correctly? If he had, and the beaters had got the story right, it had to be Moran who’d been murdered.

  Only a week ago Myers had been found on the third floor of The Golden Bear. That was bad enough in itself. The fact that the witness was a police officer made it worse. In view of his past, few people would believe he hadn’t murdered Moran.

  The one thing he had going for him was that nobody knew his true identity. Nobody apart from DC Andrews knew his past. How long that would remain secret he couldn’t be sure, but for the moment he had to act normally.

  The lunch dragged, the afternoon dragged, but eventually they completed the final drive before the
light began to fade. The guns thanked the gamekeeper and his staff. Sir Maurice paid them, and added the customary brace of pheasant for those who wanted them.

  Myers reached the cottage without knowing anything about the drive home. As he let the dog out of the car she bounded towards the house, then stopped. She began to cast about, scenting. Myers frowned. She normally headed straight inside. Straight for the food bowl. ‘What’s matter, Nell?’

  The dog barked, then began sniffing at the ground. As they neared the cottage door she barked again. Myers looked round. Everything seemed normal. He opened the door and stepped inside. The sitting room looked undisturbed; except for one thing. Myers stared at the armchair; it had been moved. Not much; and not far enough to be apparent to the casual glance. But he’d spent so many hours in that room, he knew to an inch where everything should be. He looked at the carpet. Sure enough the indentations where the chair legs had been were visible. Someone had been in the cottage.

  He got no further with his speculation. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a blur of movement. He turned and ducked. The knife that was intended for his throat sliced the air close to his ear. Myers tried to grapple with the intruder; tried to reach the knife hand which was arcing towards him. Suddenly, the assailant’s wrist was grabbed, vice-like; a powerful set of teeth sank deep into his flesh. The attacker wrestled furiously in a vain attempt to loosen the dog’s grip. He swung his fist, and hit the animal on the head. The dog let go and dropped to the ground, stunned. The intruder turned back, sliced again at Myers and made contact. Myers reeled back and fell across the chair, blood oozing from his chest. His assailant saw the dog lumbering to her feet, snarling and baring her teeth. The knife was thrown at the dog, narrowly missing her, as he bolted through the door, slamming it behind him. He ran round to the back of the building, where he’d hidden his car. He reached over into the back seat, grabbed a plastic carrier bag, which he tossed into the thick brambles and put his foot hard down on the accelerator. As he raced past the front of the cottage his eyes were on the narrow, bumpy track. He failed to see Myers stumbling through the cottage door, staring after him.

  Myers stared down at the blood seeping through his shirt. He gently eased the shirt clear and examined his chest. The knife had partly re-opened the gash caused by the chainsaw. The flesh had barely knitted. Now the damage looked even worse. He walked slowly through to the bedroom, trying not to stretch the wound-site. He gingerly peeled the shirt free, using a handtowel to mop the blood from the cut. Another sheet would have to be ripped up to provide a dressing, if only as a temporary measure. One thing was certain. There would be no emergency dashes to hospital this time. Hospital staff would have to report such injuries. Besides which, if what Myers had heard that lunchtime was accurate, it wouldn’t be long before he was being sought by the police. For Stuart Moran to have been murdered in such close proximity would never be seen as a coincidence.

  He needed time, time to think. He also needed to be away from the cottage. Once it had been his refuge against the world. Now it was anything but safe. Above all he needed space to try and work out what was happening. Why had he been attacked? And why had these figures from his past come back to haunt him?

  His first priority was his dog. He had to ensure she was safe before he could think of anything else. After all, she’d saved his life. He knew Barry and Shirley Dickinson would look after Nell. How far their willingness to help would stretch was something he’d find out in the near future. He bound his wound as best he could and donned a clean shirt. On an impulse, he reached into the wardrobe and from behind the stacked shirts pulled out a slim document case and stuffed it inside a carrier. He collected the dog, closed the door and set off in his Land Rover down the lane; each bump and pot-hole sending fresh waves of pain through his body.

  Barry and Shirley Dickinson listened to Myers’ tale with growing incredulity. When he blurted out the news of the attack Barry immediately said, ‘I’ll phone the police.’

  ‘Hang on. Don’t do that. Please, hear me out. There’s worse to come.’

  They were in the lounge of the keeper’s house. Myers was in an armchair, or rather perching on the edge of the seat, with Nell sitting leaning against his knee.

  Barry and Shirley sat on the sofa. By the end they too were on the edge of their seats, staring at the man they thought they knew. The man they realized didn’t even exist.

  ‘Christ, Andy, what a bloody mess.’ Barry said.

  ‘Alan,’ Shirley suggested.

  He turned to look at his wife. ‘What?’

  ‘His name’s Alan,’ Shirley said.

  ‘Look,’ Myers/Marshall said. ‘If this is too much for you, just say so and I’ll push off.’

  The couple looked at one another. ‘You’ll do no such thing.’ Shirley spoke for both of them. ‘Just give us time to get used to it.’

  ‘I keep thinking you could have been lying dead in a pool of blood on your kitchen floor,’ Barry said. ‘Why the hell were you attacked?’

  ‘Let’s go back to when Anna was killed. If you take my word that I didn’t do it, then who did? Suppose that same person killed Moran and discovered where I was living. It would be dead easy to frame me for Moran’s murder. I’d be the obvious choice. Who had more reason to hate Moran? To be sure I couldn’t defend myself, they dispose of me. What I can’t for the life of me work out is how they knew where I live?’

  ‘So who are they?’ Barry asked.

  ‘That’s the problem. I’ve no more idea than I did when it happened. At least I didn’t, until now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Shirley asked.

  Marshall took a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘When the car drove off I made a note of its number plate. Not too difficult for me as it turned out: ACM, my initials. All I have to do is find out who the car’s registered to.’

  ‘How can you find out who owns the car?’ Shirley asked. ‘I thought that sort of information was only available to the police?’

  Marshall told them. They listened with even greater incredulity than before. ‘You’re mad,’ Barry said. ‘You’ll finish up in the slammer.’

  ‘I agree,’ Shirley said. ‘Are you sure there’s no other way?’

  ‘None that I can think of. I know it’s risky, but what have I got to lose? Before long every police officer in the land will be dreaming of the promotion he’ll get by capturing me. I might as well go for broke. The only way I can stay out of prison is to find out who actually committed these murders.’

  ‘How will you do that if you’re on the run with no one to help you?’ Shirley asked.

  Marshall shook his head wearily. ‘I don’t know. But I have to try.’

  ‘What do you want us to do, Alan?’ Marshall was mildly surprised that it was Shirley who asked the question, her husband Barry was less so. Shirley was soft-hearted and the sadness behind Marshall’s story would have engaged her sympathy. Even before this latest bombshell he knew Shirley felt sorry for Marshall in his lonely existence.

  ‘I don’t like to ask,’ Marshall replied. ‘I don’t want to get you into trouble. If the police find out you’ve helped me they might class you as accessories.’

  ‘That would only be true if you’d committed these murders,’ Barry pointed out.

  Marshall laughed, but it was a laugh devoid of humour. ‘I didn’t kill Anna either, but I still had to serve nearly six years. My appeal only succeeded for lack of evidence, which hardly classes as a pardon. So I wouldn’t hold too much store by the fairness of British justice.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Shirley’s tone was bracing. ‘We can do what we like. No copper’s going to push us around. If they try to come the heavy, all we have to say is we don’t believe you killed anyone. Let them go ahead and try to prove the accessory bit.’

  ‘I need someone I can keep in touch with locally. I’ve no idea where this is going to lead. I’ve got one tiny piece of evidence: this number.’ He held up the slip of paper. ‘That’s more than I had when Ann
a was killed. If I don’t go for it I’ll finish up back in Durham; or worse.’

  ‘How do you mean “or worse”?’ Shirley asked.

  ‘If it hadn’t been for Nell I’d already be dead. How much easier is it to pin the blame for Moran and his girlfriend’s murders on a man who can’t answer back? A dead man. Not only that,’ Marshall said grimly, ‘the killer can still use me as a scapegoat. He can do it far easier if I’m unable to deny the charges. To make his scheme work he needs to kill me. I’m in more danger now. Keeping clear of the police is one thing. The killer is a far more potent threat. That’s why I have to disappear. It’s my only chance of staying alive.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere, the state you’re in. Not until I’ve seen to that wound,’ Shirley told him. ‘We’ve left it too long already.’

  He thought over what had happened. He reckoned he had two chances of survival. Slim chance, or no chance at all. The slim chance was finding the killer before the killer found him. The no chance was the killer finding him first. To take the slim chance meant desperate measures. Marshall was about to take the first of these. He was going to tell his story to the police.

  ‘Have you seen the headline in this morning’s paper, about Moran? What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve had to use Brown’s services again.’

  ‘Oh dear God no. Why? After all this time. I thought we were clear of all that. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’

  ‘It was unavoidable, believe me. I thought you had enough on your plate at the moment and I didn’t want to burden you with this.’

  ‘Unavoidable? In what way, unavoidable?’

  ‘He was becoming difficult. He refused to cooperate with the next part of our plans for one thing. Besides which I found out he was planning to ditch us.’

  ‘How do you mean, ditch us?’

  ‘Not to the authorities. Even he wouldn’t be that much of a fool. I learned he was planning to go see someone, somebody who would be more than interested in what he had to tell them.’