Free Innocent Blood by David Stuart Davies Page B

ahead of him, as though he was witnessing the accident in his mind. Although he hadn’t been there, Snow assumed that he must have formed images of what happened from all the reports he had heard and read. ‘Seven girls died that night,’ he continued. ‘Seven young lives snuffed out. Terrible. Most of the parents had gone by car to Manchester because there wasn’t room on the coach. Aileen Dudley and Linda Green drew the short straw. They copped it, along with the driver. Mind you, I reckon he was to blame, y’know. He was obviously going too fast. It’s a bad road at night over the tops, especially in the dark, and susceptible to mist patches. He’d have known that. And they found alcohol in his bloodstream, y’know, so he’d obviously had a drink or two. How could he? In charge of a bus full of youngsters? The bastard.’
    Snow nodded. He knew that the general consensus was that the driver was probably the cause of the crash, despite the coroner’s verdict of death by misadventure.
    ‘And, do you know, the tragedy didn’t end there – there out on those cold damp moors.’
    Snow shook his head gently. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Debbie Hirst, one of the lasses who copped it that night. Her mother topped herself. She couldn’t stand the pain of the loss. It was too much for her so she clambered up on a bridge over the M62 and jumped off. Terrible, isn’t it? What the cruel death of someone dear to you can do. It messes up your mind. But I tell you this, Inspector, I wish I’d been on the coach that night. It would have been better if we’d gone together, Glo and I. I miss her so much it bloody well hurts – hurts more than the cancer. There’s nothing here for me now. We had no children of our own so I’m left here with nothing. Nothing but the telly and the crossword, biding my time, waiting for death, waiting for the damned cancer to finally claim me.’

    When Snow got back to the office, he found Bob Fellows hovering around his office door with a big grin plastered across his face.
    ‘Bit of a breakthrough, boss.’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘That lass, Miranda Stone … She’s seen the van again. And she got its number.’
    A small electric thrill ran through Snow’s body. This was potentially very good news indeed.
    ‘Tell me more.’
    ‘Well, the girl was in town and she saw the van. She recognised it.’
    ‘Because of its colour and the Blackpool sticker she mentioned?’
    ‘The colour, yes, but inevitably the sticker had been removed, but she looked closely and saw the triangular outline where it had been.’
    ‘Clever girl.’
    ‘Very clever because she also had the presence of mind to write down the number plate this time.’
    ‘Excellent. Did she see the driver?’
    Bob shook his head. ‘ Apparently the van was empty. She was on her own and she was too scared to hang around.’
    ‘Very sensible of her but a pity she didn’t get a glimpse of him. Where was the van parked?’
    ‘At the top of town near the ABC cinema.’
    ‘Have you traced it yet?’
    ‘We’re on it now.’
    ‘Well,’ said Snow, ‘that’s potentially the best bit of news we’ve had for a while.’
    The word ‘potentially’. Snow knew not to be so sanguine in situations like this. Some clues were like bubbles: you could chase them a while but if you tried to manhandle them, they vanished into thin air. As it turned out in this case, his cynical vibes proved accurate. This potential break in the case was too good to be true. An hour later, Bob came to his office, his face gloomy and shoulders hunched.
    ‘The van was reported stolen from a garage forecourt a month ago,’ he said without preamble.
    Snow nodded. ‘It was to be expected, I suppose, but one always lives in hope.’
    ‘Hope is the bread and butter of the police force.’
    Snow raised his eyebrows at this observation. ‘Is that the family motto?’
    Bob smiled. ‘Sort of, actually. My dad used to say that all the time. He was only a humble PC but