I doze intermittently but most of the time my thoughts centre on the likely next move of the police and in particular Greene. I suspect that by now he’ll have been through the case-notes from the hit-and-run and will no doubt have spoken to Patel and Shaw to get background information on me. Thinking back and scrutinising my conversations with them, I certainly don’t remember giving away anything that was particularly relevant or that would provide an indication of my thinking or possible whereabouts. Of course, once I’d begun to put elements of my plan for Musgrove’s demise in place, I made a conscious decision to keep my thoughts to myself. But even before that time I was so emotionally flat that my responses to their questions were concise at best.
DI Patel was also pretty reserved with his views, and I struggle to imagine how he would describe me. Only once did I get an impression of how he was thinking – when, ironically, we discussed the act of revenge. The conversation took place about six weeks after the hit-and-run, and at a time when it was becoming clear that it was unlikely that anyone would be charged. We were sitting in his office at Otley Road police station. “If you don’t mind me saying, Dr Scott, you seem to be taking this well.”
I’d been surprised by his frankness and paused for a moment before responding. “I’m not necessarily sure that I’d agree. How would you expect me to react?”
Patel was quiet for a good ten seconds and at first I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he slowly lent forward in his chair. “From my experiences, different people react differently to major life stresses. Some people seem to lose all sense of reason and their sole preoccupation is to exact some form of revenge at any cost to themselves or others. Often there is no clear focus for their revenge and it’s directed inappropriately, not uncommonly at the police, as I know to my own cost. Then there are others, they fall apart emotionally and give up on life, as if the precipitating event had irrevocably shattered their emotional fabric. The third category, and that which you seem to belong to, is the stoical type. They seem to accept what is happening without obviously seeking to blame everyone and everything, and give the impression that they are rebuilding their lives.”
At the time, I’d been surprised by the depth of his response and the fact that he’d clearly given the matter a great deal of thought. I’m sure he wasn’t typical of most coppers, and I thought back to the psychology degree certificate on the wall of his office, perhaps illustrating the point. Given the recent events, I wonder if he’s now revising his theory on the category to which I belong.
At the end of my second full day of life on the run I listen to the 10:00 p.m. news, and with no new developments I perform quick ablutions and then snuggle down into the warm sleeping bag. Despite the pain in my neck, with the gentle rustling of the wind in the tree canopy playing a calming lullaby, within a few minutes my racing thoughts are interrupted and I’m asleep.
Chapter 6
In the darkness of the bolt-hole I check my watch for at least the fifth time in the last thirty minutes. It’s still only 5:23 a.m. and already I’ve been awake for several hours. My insomnia is partly due to anxiety over what the coming day will bring, but also a consequence of the worsening throbbing in my neck and the feverish and sickly feeling that has come on overnight.
With some reluctance I crawl out of the sleeping bag and into the cold drain. I take care of necessities in the plastic bottle and then, with the chill of the damp air cutting through my shirt, I struggle to put on my thick waterproof jacket in the confined space. I roll up my sleeping bag, cram it into its storage bag, and stow it in the top of the rucksack. Other than my small radio, all my essentials are packed and the remainder of my stuff, now surplus to requirements, will be dumped early on in my journey.
Spying through the small hole between rocks at the drain entrance, there’s little in the way of cloud cover and I can clearly see the brilliant crescent of the new moon against the dark sky. For now, at least, the forecasted rain has not materialised – not that I really care either way. Despite my nausea, I force down the last tin of beans and some biscuits, essential fuel for the journey, and wash them down with water.
Wearing my thick Michelin-man jacket, the bolt-hole feels even more cramped than usual as I turn on the radio news. The local station is now my news outlet of choice, as the national network has apparently lost interest and gives few updates on the story. The bulletin begins and again the murder and man-hunt receive top billing. I listen carefully, and neurotically scrutinise any change in wording or tone, or any subtle nuance that might provide an insight into the thinking of the police. But other than a suspected sighting in Cardiff, there are no new developments and my decision is made: it’s time to go.
Fortune favours the brave, I whisper as I remove the rocks blocking the entrance and then clamber out, under the fallen tree trunk, to reach the outside world. As soon as there’s enough headroom I stand upright in a slow and tentative fashion, partly in case I’m being watched but also because my spine feels crumpled after the days of cramped confinement. Alone and unobserved, I vigorously massage my lower back as I try to relax my tense and knotted body, and then briefly jog on the spot, as if preparing for a long run. After a few seconds, and feeling slightly less stiff, I drag the rucksack outside and place it on dry ground before heading back inside the bolt-hole. I crawl to the far end of the drain and begin removing the piled-up rocks and soil with my bare hands. After several minutes of digging, water from the higher stream starts to leak into the drain. Initially a trickle, the flow steadily increases, and with the sleeves of my jacket getting splashed with dirty stream water I scramble backwards and out of the bottom end as the cavity of the drain begins to flood. Who knows whether it’ll make much of a difference, but I can only hope that any potential forensic evidence will be washed away, leaving no clues as to my whereabouts in the last few days.
I pull up the hood of my jacket and secure it with the thick scarf – hopefully sufficient to hide my identity without looking like a bank robber on the way to a job. Then, with some mixed feelings, I leave behind my temporary home and make my way up the steep winding path that meanders through the woods. There is certainly the relief that the waiting is finally over and I can fill my lungs with fresh crisp oxygen rather than stagnant bolt-hole air, but I’m also anxious, knowing that I’m subjecting myself to risk and potential capture. Within sixty seconds I reach the distinctive red bin for dog waste at the side of the path, and shove in my rubbish bag while trying to avoid getting my hand covered in canine crap.
With the early morning sunlight beginning to cut through the darkness and illuminate the path ahead, I can just make out the outline of a dog-walker approaching me a hundred metres or so in the distance. A knot immediately forms in the pit of my stomach and, with the taste of baked beans lingering in my mouth, I have an almost overwhelming feeling of nausea. I’ve mentally rehearsed this particular scenario; should I walk past without acknowledgement or nod briefly by way of greeting and then move on. The social convention that requires two passing strangers to acknowledge each other in some contexts but not in others has always been a slight mystery to me, but in the current scenario, breaching convention and in anyway drawing unwanted attention would have greater significance than ever before. Ultimately I decided on the latter, and to my relief the crossing is uneventful, the dog-walker giving a similarly brief nod, showing nothing in the way of recognition, and we go on our respective ways. I feel disproportionately relieved, almost elated, that I’ve not been recognised, though in reality, in the semi-darkness, the chance of discovery is remote and I know there’ll be far greater risks ahead.