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‘You always feared him, didn’t you?’

‘Feared and respected him. It was fear of him that made all this necessary. So, yes, I’m glad he’s no longer in a position to threaten us. From what Brown told me, it appears things have been left so that Marshall will be the prime suspect for everything that’s happened. The police will think he’s taken his revenge, then done away with himself. All very neat and tidy. Everything carefully packaged for the police to wrap up with the minimum of effort. It even keeps the crime statistics looking right. They have the dead man, they have the motive. Once they find out who he is they’ll know why he wanted Moran dead. Why should they bother looking elsewhere?’

‘So that’s all over with. I have to admit every time it happens I get a fresh set of quivers down my spine.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not quite it; would that life was that simple. I did mention that we need to dispense with the services of someone who’s become a liability. It appears they seem to believe they are more important than is the case. They’ve become very greedy. Whatever the motive, they’re a potential threat. We can’t afford to have them
threatening
us, not when we’re about to play for such high stakes.’

‘What are we to do about it? Pay them off?’

‘Would you trust them if we did? No, I’ve already made
arrangements
with Brown. It’s absolutely vital that when we make our move, we do so without risk. We can use Brown to dispose of the danger they represent. Then we sacrifice him as planned.’

‘Do we really have to do this?’

‘I’m afraid so. Regard it as “natural wastage”. I believe that’s the current expression. Only in this case perhaps the term “unnatural wastage” would be more appropriate.’

‘Won’t it look odd if he uses the same disposal technique if the killer’s supposedly dead?’

‘It won’t matter. What happens in North Yorkshire is unlikely to be connected to what goes on here.’

‘Harry, you know I think the world of you but sometimes you scare me.’

Three Shires Building Society had several branches within Leeds city centre. Marshall chose the busiest, at lunchtime, when counter staff were taking breaks in rotation and customers formed long queues. The withdrawal went smoothly, even for so large an amount. Marshall was asked for proof of identity. The cashier, under pressure from the length of the queue, barely glanced at the documents he produced.

Marshall heaved a sigh of relief when he reached the open air of the shopping precinct and walked swiftly to his next
destination
: a branch of one of the big supermarkets. He claimed a trolley and selected several items from the clothing section. He wanted something inconspicuous. He began by picking some warm shirts, added jeans, socks, underwear and trainers to his collection. He finished with a zip-up quilted jacket. As an
afterthought
he selected a thick woollen scarf, ideal for wrapping up warm – and for covering part of his face. Everything was in dark, sombre colours, selected for anonymity. He headed off to collect other necessities: toiletries, and a pack of sterile
dressings
for his wound. He paused in front of a display of razors and blades and fingered his chin for a moment before turning away. If the police were looking for a clean-shaven Alan Charles Marshall, a few days’ growth of beard might put them off the scent. Instead he went to the adjacent aisle, where he chose a barrel-shaped holdall.

When he had everything he needed he headed for the tills. On his way, a display at the end of one of the aisles caught his eye. He paused and read the features advertising the product on the stand; picked up the item and added it to his trolley.

Once he’d paid, Marshall walked across to the toilets. He
used the baby-changing table to open the holdall and place his purchases inside after removing the labels. He zipped the bag up and wandered out into the store. He was about to leave when he glanced across towards the restaurant. The dining area contained only about half a dozen customers. Most of them had ordered nothing more adventurous than tea, coffee or scones. From what he could see of the cafeteria Marshall reckoned there were more members of staff on duty than customers. That suited his purpose ideally. What he was looking for was a waitress of mature years with too little work to do and a propensity for gossip, one moreover who was well acquainted with Leeds.

Half an hour later Marshall was heading out of the
supermarket
, his stomach lined with sausage, egg and chips. Scrawled on the back of his till receipt was the name and telephone number of a small private hotel in the suburb of Far Headingley. ‘It belongs to my sister’s husband’s cousin and his wife. They run it together,’ the waitress had told him. ‘Although to be fair she does all the work. It’s basic B&B, but the rooms are clean and the food’s OK; you’ll get a good breakfast. If you’re here on business you’ll not need much more than that, will you?’

Marshall returned to the foyer and crossed to the bank of public phones, dialled the number and within a couple of minutes had made a reservation. Once outside he paused, pondering whether to catch a bus or walk. He glanced up. Although the day was cloudy those clouds were high and he could see there was little chance of rain. He’d not set foot in Leeds for years. He decided to walk the four miles or so to his destination, familiarizing himself with the changes that had been wrought since he’d left. Time was not an issue, anonymity was, and Marshall still felt reluctant to be in an enclosed space. On a bus others would have the chance to study him or maybe compare him with a photograph in their paper, beneath some startlingly lurid headline.

He crossed the inner ring road and began the long gradual climb towards the university, then across the open area beyond to Hyde Park Corner. Crossing the road he walked up Otley
Road past the famous cricket ground. He saw the old Cottage cinema he’d attended as a boy, then swung left off the main road and was soon outside the Cardigan Hotel. The building was three storeys high, set in grounds that had been given to tarmac at the front to accommodate those guests with cars.

Marshall entered and identified himself to the proprietor. He completed the signing-in process after having undergone a cross-examination from the owner regarding his origin, reason for visiting Leeds and duration of stay. The story Marshall had concocted during his walk must have been credible. He was handed the key to room seven on the first floor. ‘It’s a double, I’m afraid. We only have three singles and they’re all taken,’ the proprietor told him. ‘Breakfast starts at 7.30; goes on until 9.15.’

The room was at the back of the building, overlooking the garden. An effort had been made to keep the area attractive, but at that time of the year all gardens look sad. Marshall dumped his holdall on the bed and began hanging his clothes in the wardrobe. When the unpacking was done, he slid the additional item from the holdall and removed the blister pack. Having read the instructions he soon had it assembled and looked around for a socket to plug the charger in. He’d never used one before but according to the instructions it would be ready next day. When that time came he’d feel marginally less isolated. With the aid of his pay-as-you-go mobile phone, he’d be able to keep in contact with the Dickinsons and Lisa Andrews. His last act was to remove the sheath from his belt. So far the knife had been concealed by his coat, but Marshall knew one sight of it would be enough to raise suspicions. What would pass unnoticed in Layton Forest could cause panic in Leeds city centre. He
carefully
slid the forestry knife in the side pocket of the holdall and placed the bag in the wardrobe. He paused over the other item on his belt. Although it was a tool he found useful when he was shooting, there would be little call for it in Leeds. Nevertheless he decided not to part with it.

Getting an interview with Sir Maurice Winfield wasn’t easy. Nash rang Winfield Manor only to be told to redirect his request
via Special Branch. He eventually obtained permission to visit the manor next day.

He introduced himself and Lisa. ‘I take it you’re not as retired as rumour suggests, Sir Maurice?’

Winfield smiled but remained silent.

‘I’d better explain why I’m here,’ Nash continued.

‘I imagine you want to talk to me about Alan Charles Marshall, aka Andrew Myers,’ Winfield said calmly.

DC Andrews blinked in surprise.

‘Come, come young lady. You don’t think my staff would employ someone on my estate, without wanting to know
everything
about them. I knew all about Marshall before he was given the forester’s job and about that horrendous miscarriage of justice when he was convicted.’ Winfield leaned forward across the desk to emphasize his point. ‘Over the last two years I’ve got to know Marshall reasonably well, and part of my job, as you’re no doubt aware, concerns the ability to judge character. Marshall might be capable of killing someone, but I doubt if he killed these people. Any more than I think he murdered his wife. He might have killed Moran for revenge, but I’d look very carefully at the evidence before you rush to judge him. That happened before, with disastrous consequences.’

‘Thank you, Sir Maurice. I had already come to that conclusion. I was more interested in your character assessment of the man.’

‘Care to tell me why?’

Nash hesitated a second, before explaining about the waiter’s uniform.

‘That’s good police work. Let me know if you need anything else. I’ll leave instructions with my staff for any calls to be put through to me.’

Nash’s eyes were drawn to a photograph on the dresser. When they left Winfield Manor Nash’s doubts about Marshall’s guilt had been reinforced by Sir Maurice’s comments. But they had what they needed most: the photograph loaned by Sir Maurice of the Boxing Day shoot. The group included a cabinet minister, a prominent member of the House of Lords, a
world-famous surgeon and a bishop. The only non-celebrity on the photo was Alan Marshall. Nash was about to change that.

‘If you think Marshall’s innocent, why put out his photo and say we want to question him?’ Lisa asked on the journey back to Helmsdale.

‘If Marshall’s story is true, the person who attacked him might back off from having another go, if he thinks Marshall’s going to be blamed for the Moran and Robertson murders. If we pick Marshall up, he’s going to be a lot safer in our cells than out and about on his own.’

‘If Marshall didn’t kill them, what do you think the motive was?’

‘That’s the problem, Lisa. If it wasn’t revenge and it wasn’t robbery I’ve absolutely no idea.’

It was one thing finding a base, but Marshall was aware he had to conform to expected behaviour patterns to avoid drawing attention to himself. His first night in the hotel was not a good one. Despite his weariness his sleep was fitful. Every slight disturbance preyed on his heightened nerves. He awoke at every creaking floorboard, every flushed toilet, not to mention every cough, sneeze, belch or fart from the occupants of the rooms around him. The sounds carried through the lath-and-
plasterboard
walls with great clarity.

He was relieved when the display on the bedside radio read 7 a.m.; felt it would be safe to get up. There were sounds of movement from various parts of the hotel. Marshall tuned the radio to the local station and switched the TV on in time for the regional news report. He was relieved to find there was no mention of him, either under the name Marshall or Myers.

By 7.30 he was in the dining room, where several early risers were eating breakfast. It proved to be as good as the lady at the supermarket had promised. As he was eating, Marshall discreetly studied his fellow guests. A couple of them were
obviously
reps, their white shirts and ties giving them away. The rest seemed to be tradesmen judging by their more casual apparel and the logos on the vans in the hotel car park. Two of these
had the names of a shop-fitting company on the side panels, a third bore the name and logo of a company that fitted drainage systems, whilst a fourth had a mildly smutty advert regarding scaffolding and the erection of it.

All of them would be out of the hotel by 8.15 to beat the Leeds rush hour. His aim should be to leave around the same time. If anyone asked, he could claim he was walking to the main road where a colleague had arranged to meet him. Thereafter the safe thing to do would be to walk into the city centre. There he could lose himself in the crowds thronging the
pavements
and shopping precincts, the office complexes and bars, pubs and clubs. There he would also have access to the public library. Inside, he could remain clear of the cold and any adverse weather; stay all day if he wanted without being disturbed. He could also use the time to read the local press to find out more about the Netherdale murders.

When Nash and Lisa arrived back at Helmsdale there was a message waiting. Nash stared at the name. It had featured heavily in the file he’d read on the Anna Marshall murder.

He dialled the number on the note. ‘Superintendent Dundas, please.’ He waited, curiosity building. Dundas had been the arresting officer. Nash had been puzzled by the single-minded way Dundas had gone after Marshall for his wife’s murder. As far as Nash could make out, no other lines of enquiry had been pursued. Why was that?

‘DI Nash?’

‘You left a message for me.’

‘Yes. I understand you’ve obtained the Marshall file. In view of the history I think my force should take over the
investigation
. As you must be aware Moran was a vital witness in securing Marshall’s conviction. If it hadn’t been for the stupidity of the Court of Appeal, Marshall would still be inside where he belongs. And Stuart Moran and the Robertson woman would still be alive. So I want you to send all the paperwork through to me, my team will take it from here.’

‘Sorry, Superintendent. That isn’t going to happen. The
murders took place on my patch where you have no jurisdiction. If, as you seem desperately keen to prove, Marshall did kill them, I’ve yet to be convinced about it. So my team will continue to run the enquiry.’ Nash had been about to explain why he wasn’t convinced of Marshall’s guilt, but some sixth sense stopped him. He listened impassively as Dundas ranted and threatened for a few minutes. Eventually, wearied by the bluster, Nash said, ‘Look, if you want to complain, phone Superintendent Edwards at Netherdale, or Chief Constable O’Donnell. Stop wasting my time.’

Nash shouted through to the CID office for Andrews. She appeared almost immediately, a mug of coffee in hand. As she set this on his desk, Nash asked, ‘You’ve worked in Yorkshire Central. What do you know of a Superintendent Dundas?’

Lisa pulled a face. ‘Nothing good, he’s not popular with other officers. Well, most of them at any rate. He has one or two favourites. The remainder detest him.’ She paused for a second. ‘There are also a few rumours. Nothing specific, but they say his lifestyle’s a bit rich for the money he gets. He’s said to like the bright lights and isn’t too choosy about the company he keeps. Why do you ask?’

Nash explained.

‘Do you think there’s something fishy about his desperation to convict Marshall?’

‘Could be, it might equally be nothing more than over-zealousness. Either way I’m taking no chances. I’ll make sure Ruth Edwards and the chief are primed.’

‘Might Superintendent Edwards be tempted to recommend handing it over? Given that we’re so short-handed?’

‘I think I can convince her. In the meantime, I need to ask Professor Ramirez a question that’s been bugging me.’ He reached for his phone.

‘Professor, Mike Nash here, sorry to disturb you. DC Andrews passed on your comment about the left-handed appearance of the injuries to Moran and his lady friend, I found it intriguing. Would you be able to tell the same about a murder committed several years ago?’

‘You always disturb me, Nash. No, I’m afraid not. I’d need to examine the wound itself, not a photograph of it.’

‘Thanks, it was just a thought.’ He replaced the phone and turned to Lisa. ‘Right, I want us to go through the file on Marshall’s original conviction again. There’s something buzzing at the back of my mind, but I can’t think what it is.’