Free Innocent Blood by David Stuart Davies Page A

he’d said and he turned his head away and his body shook slightly. ‘My God, I wish she was,’ he muttered into his hand.
    Snow waited a moment and then carried on matter-of-factly. He knew this was the best way to counteract that kind of emotion. ‘I’m sure you helped her a lot with the youngsters.’
    ‘Oh, yes, yes, I did.’ He half-smiled. ‘Well, I did as I was told. I was the unofficial gopher. Gloria had taught music at the local junior school until she retired early. She had quite a good little choir there and so she thought she’d try and set up an independent girls’ choir and see if … to use her words … to see if they could “go places”.’ His grey face softened and he chuckled at the memory. ‘She wanted the best, mind you. She was a stickler for perfection. That was the secret of her success. She held auditions and the candidates came from all areas of Huddersfield. Well, she had a bit of a reputation did my Gloria. Well deserved, too.’
    Snow nodded. ‘I am sure.’
    ‘That was about two years ago and it wasn’t very long before things started to happen. We won a few local competitions and then we started going further afield. The real success was the repertoire, you know. It was very broad and varied: a bit of “All in an April Evening” followed by some silly pop tune. There was no one else doing that. It was all Gloria’s idea.’
    ‘How were you involved?’
    ‘As I said, as a dogsbody.’ He gave a half-hearted salute and smiled but the sadness never quite left his eyes. ‘I helped to arrange things in the background but I had nothing to do with the music side. I’m tone deaf. Can’t hold a tune to save my life.’ He gave another chesty chuckle.
    ‘Did you get to know any of the girls?’
    Thomas Niven raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Their characters and their individual talents. You must have got to know some of them quite well.’
    ‘Not really. I was a backroom boy. Never went to rehearsals and that. Ran a few of them home sometimes but I was Mr Paperwork and Mr Phone Calls.’
    ‘Did you know Gillian Bolton and Angela Cleeves?’
    ‘Ah,’ said Niven, his eyes widening, ‘so that’s where this is going. The two lasses who have been killed.’
    Snow said nothing.
    ‘I didn’t know them. I knew of them. I saw them and I may have exchanged a few words with them, I suppose, like you do. But that’s all.’
    ‘Did your wife say anything about the girls?’
    Niven thought for a moment. ‘I believe she thought the Angela girl was particularly talented but a bit of a madam. My Glo ran those rehearsals like a military campaign. From the moment the girls arrived until they left, it was work, work, work. That’s why they were so bloody good. There was no time to chit chat or fool about. I doubt if any firm friendships sprang up through the choir.’
    ‘Why didn’t you go to the concert in Manchester on the night of the crash?’
    ‘I wasn’t well enough. I was recovering from chemo. I had cancer. I’ve still bloody well got it. Some bugger up there deemed it appropriate that I should carry on living in discomfort while my Gloria, who had nothing wrong with her and so much to give, should die.’ Angry tears now rolled down the old man’s ashen features and he clenched his hands together in a desperate attempt to control his emotions.
    These scenes embarrassed Snow. He never knew what to say. He felt sorry for Niven, empathised with him even, but he knew that nothing he could say would ease his pain. That practical rationale prevented him from reaching out in any sentimental, empty-gestured fashion to Niven. He should have brought Susan with him. She knew how to handle these situations. She could with great skill and remarkable facility both comfort and elicit information from the distressed interviewee.
    ‘It were terrible, y’know. That crash,’ Niven said suddenly, sniffing back the tears, his back straightening as he stared