Chapter 5

My first morning in the Graves Park bolt-hole, I wake from a deep slumber with a shaft of brilliant light striking my face and gently warming my skin.  In my barely wakened state, it’s not unlike the comforting sensation of lying on a beach and, with eyes closed, seeing the red glow of the sun beyond.  But within seconds reality kicks-in and remembering where I am, and the events of the previous night, I fear that I’ve been discovered and that my pursuers are illuminating my presence with a torch beam.  My heart pounds as the anxiety is explosively reignited, and I sit bolt upright, cracking my forehead on the low ceiling.  As I blink away the pain, relief comes with the realization that it’s only sunlight streaming through a slit between the rocks at the entrance of the drain.  Breathing more easily, I check my watch in the cone of light, 10:05 a.m.  Amazingly I’ve been dead to the world for the last five hours.

Viewing my temporary home in the daylight reminds me how small a space it is.  I struggle to adjust my position before cautiously spying through the narrow aperture between the rocks at the entrance.  My view is restricted to a small section of clear blue sky and tree canopy with autumn leaves falling.  The rain has finally stopped and the only sounds come from the nearby stream with the water level running high and the gentle blowing of the wind through the branches.  Mercifully, there are no helicopter blades whirring, German Shepherds barking, or policemen shouting.  Clearly I’ve not been discovered, and refreshed after the long sleep, my mood and optimism has improved beyond recognition from just a few hours earlier.

I rub my face with my hands and feel a fine layer of salt on the skin from the dried sweat.  My mouth is dry and my furred tongue sticks to my teeth; a mouth like the bottom of a birdcage, I’ve heard it described.  I reach for a bottle of water and take several large gulps, savouring the icy cold water running down my throat as I begin to replenish my dehydrated body.  I’m starving hungry, and open a packet of chocolate digestives before greedily eating two sandwiched together.  The biscuits only serve to clog up my mouth again, and I wash them away with more water.

My thoughts return to the events of the previous evening and I can’t help but think that, if everything had gone to plan, I would be on the plane by now and no doubt eating an unpalatable airline meal out of a plastic tray.  In my current mood, though, I’m happy enough with chocolate biscuits and water.

I attempt to sit up a little, and crouching awkwardly I piss in one of the two-litre water bottles, now a dedicated pee-collecting receptacle.  My urine is dark orange in colour and fills the confined space of the bolt-hole with the harsh smell of ammonia, a function of my dehydration from the exertions of the previous night.  Next I gingerly remove the scarf from around my neck while holding the blood stained handkerchief beneath it in place.  The hanky is stuck firmly to a chunk of flesh hanging below my jaw line.  Wincing with pain, I splash the hanky with cold water until it is soaked through and then try to peel it slowly away from my skin.  The pain is excruciating, and I can’t believe it didn’t hurt more at the time of its infliction.  With the filthy hanky finally off, I use a tiny mirror from one of Helen’s compacts for guidance and pick at the dry blood with baby-wipes.  By the time I’ve finished, the wound is bleeding again, although not as heavily as the night before.  I smear it in stinging antiseptic cream before packing it with cotton wool and wrapping it in a crepe bandage from my first aid kit.  I inspect my handiwork in the mirror: not quite Florence Nightingale, but it’ll suffice.

With medical issues dealt with, my thoughts turn to the next phase of my plan and the optimal time to move on to the more secure and longer-term bolt-hole at Kinder Scout in the Peak District National Park.  In my current abode I have sufficient food stockpiled for at least a week and, with the nearby streams, an adequate supply of fresh drinking water is not a limiting factor.  But in my contingency planning, the Graves Park bolt-hole had only ever been intended as a short-term measure.  It’s far too close to busy footpaths, risking discovery at any time, and with its low ceiling and limited space it is impractical for anything more than a temporary stop-gap.  I need to make the twenty-five-mile journey to the isolated Kinder Scout, where discovery is less likely and I’ve got food stock-piled for at least six months.  An intellectual assessment suggests a balance has to be reached: leaving the current drain too early will risk capture if the area is still swarming with police; alternatively, staying too long will increase the risk of accidental discovery by a member of the public, possibly a dog-walker.  Reluctantly I also admit that there is an emotional aspect to my decision-making.  Of course I’m keen to move on to Kinder Scout, so I’m one step closer to my ultimate freedom, but at the same time the previous night’s pursuit by the police has left me exhausted and badly shaken, and I certainly don’t want to expose myself to a similar event.

To make an informed and rational judgement I need to know what’s going on in the outside world.  More specifically, have the police identified me as the prime suspect, and if so, do they have any leads as to my whereabouts?  In terms of the former, from my work in the lab I know that the PCR fingerprinting analysis of the forensic DNA evidence won’t be available yet, but a description from the officers at the scene and my unfortunate run-in with WPC Shaw will certainly point the finger at me.  I reach over to the front pocket of the rucksack and pull out a small DAB/FM radio, about the size and weight of a pack of playing cards, which I’d bought a few days earlier.  I’d already preset the FM and digital stations for both BBC Radio 4 and the local stations BBC Radio Sheffield and Radio Hallam.  I switch on to the latter, and with an earpiece in situ the reception on the digital station is crystal clear. A song is playing: a Barbara Streisand number, I think.

I absently listen to the rest of the ditty before the news starts at 11:00 a.m.  The female newsreader begins: “… a man in his thirties was brutally attacked and killed in the Linton Green area of the city at around 10:45 p.m. yesterday evening.  The name of the man has not yet been released; however, police are appealing for witnesses to come forward.  The senior investigating officer, Detective Superintendent Adam Greene, is holding a press conference this afternoon and we’ll bring you more details as we have them.  In other news ...”  The newsreader goes on to discuss the visit of Prince Charles to the city and I turn the radio off.

For the next couple of hours I ponder the short broadcast.  I’ve now got confirmation that Musgrove is dead, although it’s no great surprise, given the extent of the injuries I inflicted.  In other aspects the news report provides no further useful information, and the police, at least via the media, have not acknowledged that I’m a suspect in the attack or even released a description of the attacker.  Little the wiser, I lie back down on the sleeping bag, nibble at a chocolate digestive and wait for the next bulletin.

I turn on to Radio 4 with the World at One broadcast just starting.  The first news piece describes a terrorist act in Iraq, followed by a change in the Bank of England interest rate. I don’t listen to the specific details as my concentration begins to lapse, but the next item immediately grabs my attention: “… a man has been attacked with a machete close to the city centre of Sheffield.  The man, whose name has not yet been released, is in his thirties and was killed instantly.”  The news anchor-man then links to a reporter at the scene who elaborates: “Details are sketchy but it is believed that the murdered man was suspected to have been the driver involved in a hit-and-run incident in the city almost six months ago.  This resulted in the death of the parents, wife and two young children of a local man, Dr Julian Scott.  Police were unable to bring charges at the time due to insufficient forensic evidence and failure of witnesses to come forward.  I understand from my police sources that Julian Scott, a thirty-seven-year-old academic at the university, is wanted for questioning by the police, although as yet they have not formally stated that he is a suspect.  Back to you in the studio.”  The broadcast goes on to cover a proposed rail strike, and I switch the radio off.