Authors: Michael Wood
Chapter 5
Three weeks after the deaths of Jack and Elaine Fraser, Keswick was almost back to normal. The hotels resumed playing host to walking boots and backpacks instead of laptops and cameras. The massive police presence had dissipated, and the Incident Room had been closed, though, according to a police press release, a team was still assigned to the case at County HQ.
Like a student trying to please his teacher, Ben had dashed about asking questions, searching for something to give to Sophie Lund. He had pushed his friendship with Sergeant Bill Unwin to the limit, questioning him surreptitiously during their golf sessions to see if he had any variance on the official statements of the detective chief superintendent handling the case.
Apart from an insight into some political infighting about what should and should not be released via the police press office, he had nothing significant to contribute. The police had found nothing to link the deaths with terrorists or disgruntled Sellafield workers, but ‘their investigations were continuing’.
Bill’s small uniformed team had spent the weeks searching Little Man gully, looking for Mrs Fraser’s ear, or remnants of it, without success. Apparently, the path-ologist had some doubts about the head wounds and needed the ear to clarify his conclusions.
Ben had even retraced Jack and Elaine Fraser’s last day. Mrs Telford’s caravan site, where the Frasers had been reliving their honeymoon, was part of one of his daily walks. He often called into her little shop for an ice cream nearing the end of a regular eight miler.
Mrs Telford had confirmed that the Fraser’s called into the shop to let her know they were going up Skiddaw. ‘Such a lovely couple...so considerate...they always held hands…I still can’t believe it.’ Her lips had quivered and a handkerchief had appeared from underneath her flowered apron, to dab her eyes.
From the caravan site, Ben took what he considered to be the easiest route up Skiddaw; not the picturesque Ullock Pike route taken by most tourists, and probably the Frasers, but the shorter, steeper approach from Dash Falls.
Even though he was there on a solemn mission, when he reached the top, he was overcome with the beauty that surrounded him. Every day he was compelled to stop and stare at the beauty of the land he now called home.
Down below, beside the lucific lake, he could just see the roof of his cottage, hiding among the trees. He pictured his rowing boat, tied up at the lake’s edge, always ready for a lazy afternoon’s drifting, or a spot of fishing; the wild birds and animals on the lawn, and Helen, dear Helen, baking and cooking on her day off, humming contentedly, flour everywhere. He could smell the hot scones. Was ever a man so lucky?
From Skiddaw’s highest point he moved along the ridge until he reached Little Man. He inspected the area where people were most likely to stop to take in the magnificent view.
He had remembered correctly. The top of the mountain was convex for a few yards before it became a sheer drop. The contour naturally forced people to stand away from the absolute edge. Even if you slipped at this point you would have a few yards of safety before you plunged over the edge. The chances of it being an accident were virtually nil. You would have to deliberately throw yourself off, or be pushed. It had to be suicide or murder.
As he turned to leave the area, he spotted something blue lying on the dark grey, loose shale, ground. Bending down, he found a badly chewed plastic top off a ballpoint pen. It found its way into the pocket of his body warmer, to share space with bits of wire, string, radiator key, numerous dog-eared bits of paper containing once vital notes, elastic bands, zip tag, and sundry electric fuses.
Helen no longer shook her head when she saw him studiously placing them in a pile while the jacket got washed. She had long ago accepted that some men never totally grow up.
*
During those three weeks, Ben had phoned Sophie Lund frequently. She had been waiting, which had reassured him that she was genuine, and he had passed on the snippets of information he had gleaned. When they had spoken, it had been very brief and to the point, except for one occasion when she sounded a bit down and confided in him that her ‘project was not proceeding smoothly.’
Ben began to sense that he was wasting his time. Even if there was something to find out, he probably couldn’t unearth it. A few more weeks, and he would phone Sophie to call it a day.
Chapter 6
‘A child would destroy the world if it had the power,’ Freud said. So it was with Hector Snodd as he moved into adolescence. He wanted to explode in a blaze of destruction. His years of loneliness, lack of affection, and rejection by his peers, had forged him into a morose loner. His years of pathetically trying to please were over. To hell with them. He would make them pay. He would make everybody pay.
He started to play truant from his new high school, where the boys called him ‘Snoddy the Body’. He wandered the streets of Thurso town, stealing from shops. When at school, where he had been doing well academically, he became disruptive, deliberately played dumb.
At the croft, he became cruel to the animals he had once loved. He enjoyed hearing them cry out in pain. He set fire to his uncle’s hay crop and to others. He fought back when his uncle tried to discipline him.
Each time he gave vent to his destructive forces, his sense of inadequacy and inferiority faded; his burning feeling of resentment was temporarily quenched. At that moment he was in control of himself, of others. He was powerful; he was worthwhile.
During this time, he made two life-changing discoveries. The first was normal: he loved girls. Even though they still snubbed him at school, they did not come into his circle of hate. With no experience of a mother or sister, he saw girls as beautiful, unattainable, angels from heaven.
One girl in particular filled him with longing. Kathleen Rinaldi had a gentle, fawn-like face, golden skin, deep brown eyes. She was small and slim, and seemed shy and quiet. He loved her desperately. At least he thought it was love. He wasn’t sure what love was; it was outside his experience. If only he could hold her, he would protect her, and rest his cheek against her soft brown skin. He would take her to the cave and they would never leave.
A hopeless ache ensued when he thought like this: a lump in his throat, his lips tight, deep, terrible sobs. As the tears poured, he would get out the magazines he had stolen from the newsagent, and gaze longingly at their heavenly bodies. One day...one day.
The second discovery was unusual for a crofting youth. His uncle wouldn’t allow television, ‘the tool of Satan’, into the house, but he did keep a small radio, which he used only for the news and weather forecast.
While his uncle was out working at night, Hector relieved his loneliness by listening to pop music on the many programmes that it offered.
He had been changing programmes when a dramatic sound grabbed his attention. He released the tuning knob.
Soaring, searing, music entered his head, and seized his mind. It took him on an emotional journey. It spoke of turmoil, pain, misery, resentment, anger, confusion, and finally, as it faded to a breathlessly quiet conclusion - of resignation and death. When it had finished, he found himself sitting on the bed, shaking, and crying uncontrollably. It had taken him on a journey through his own miserable life. Someone else had felt like him and, miraculously, described his feelings with music - without words.
He listened intently as the announcer told him that he had been listening to the final movement of the sixth symphony written by a man whose name sounded to him like Chykoski. Wiping his eyes, he found pencil and paper and made a note of the name. He wanted to know more about Mr Chykoski.
He was about to switch back to his usual pop programme, when a massive sound leapt from the radio, making his heart jump. As he recovered, he heard some simple notes, sounding like mice running about, take over. Gradually a simple tune built up to what, he thought, was its loud conclusion, but then it drove on, picking up more pace and volume.
His heart kept pace with the excitement. The music surged and swayed, driving on and on. It spoke about power, strength, achievement and joy. It ended in a massive blast of triumph. He paced the floor, his heart racing. He had to hear it again. He wanted to capture that feeling of power forever. He had his pencil ready this time to record that he had heard Beethoven’s third symphony for the first time.
*
So started Hector Snodd’s lifelong, obsessional love of serious music. The next day he went to Thurso library and, upon enquiring about Mr Chikoski and Mr Beethoven, was introduced to
The Groves Dictionary of Music and Musicians.
In it he found the brief life stories of Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky, and Ludwig Von Beethoven. Even the strange spelling excited him.
After reading about their troubled lives, Hector began to understand. Tchaikovsky had described his feelings of loneliness and misery, while Beethoven had described his feelings of fighting back, winning, proclaiming victory. He had found two people who understood him exactly. He must learn more about them, hear more of their music; make them his friends.
*
From the library, Hector went straight to Begg’s electric shop in Rotterdam Street and stole a Walkman. From there he went to The Music Shop in High Street and stole eight tapes. As well as Tchaikovsky, and Beethoven, he now had Sibelius, Mozart, Rachmaninov and Mahler to listen to and learn from.
During breaks at school he used his Walkman constantly, walking among the other pupils, lost in his own world of mighty music, feeling superior to those who had once frightened him.
Back at the croft, he hid the Walkman and tapes from his Uncle, in the same place as his stolen magazines - under the floorboards, under a rug.
Chapter 7
Hector left school without qualifications. After a few months of unemployment his uncle used his contacts at Dounreay to get him a job as a labourer in the concrete batching plant, which had been set up on site for the construction of a new waste, receipt, assay, character-isation and super-compaction (WRACS) facility.
His uncle, and the manager of the batching plant, Callum McDonald, both attended the same church on Sunday mornings, which is where the good word went in.
Hector found it difficult to socialise with the rest of the workers and, eventually, found a quiet hideaway in a corner of the laboratory mould store, making himself a seat with an upturned admixture container. Here he spent his breaks alone, listening to music on his Walkman. By now he had added Sibelius and Rachmaninov to his list of favourites.
*
For the next few months, the routine of work, and the novelty of having money to spend, brought some stability into his life. Then, during a rare cleaning spell, his uncle found his stash of magazines and tapes under the floorboards, and threw him out.
He had just enough money to pay the bond on a dingy flat in Thurso, above Harold’s butcher’s shop in Bank Street, next to the Central Hotel.
*
During the next three years Hector drifted into a routine of work and drink. During the day, the uncomplicated, physical work routine suited him. He kept his nose clean and the rest of the staff left him alone.
But at night it was different. The solitude he sought during the day became his tormentor at night. In the evening, alone in his flat, he listened to his music. But as the night progressed, he would begin to feel empty and desolate. He had nobody to share his music with. He wanted somebody to sit beside him and hold his hand while they listened. He wanted somebody to love. He wanted Kathleen Rinaldi.
He fantasised about abducting her. When he saw her in the street, holding hands with her boyfriend, he wanted to kill him. He would follow them just to keep her in his sight as long as possible. But it would become unbearable, and the night would end in the Central’s lounge bar drowning out the pain, blotting out the malevolent world.
After a drinking session, he would lie in his bed, eyes closed, listening to an adagio, tears flowing, relying on the swirling, nauseous, numbness in his head to blot out thoughts of suicide or ...
*
He was still clinging to this fragile routine when his uncle died.
Hector had been asked by Dounreay Security to check on him, as he hadn’t turned up for work for two days.
He found him at the back of the croft; face down in an overflowing sheep-dip bath, together with a dozen trapped sheep bleating their hunger. It was the first time Hector had seen a human corpse.
He poked it with his foot. The body suddenly turned over in the stinking organophosphate solution, stiff arms saluting the air, head fixed in a sitting up position, staring at him with pickled grey eyes. Fascinating.
Before the body could turn over again, Hector put his foot on the head and pushed it under. He watched with interest as rigid legs came up and kicked at the sky, then sank, bringing the arms and head back up, the whole body becoming a gradually faltering seesaw in a khaki liquid grave.
He released the sheep and played a few more body games before going into the house. Not knowing he would inherit the croft, he spent the next hour searching and looting.
He informed the police on his return to Thurso. Subsequently, they informed him that his uncle had died of a heart attack, and that a will had been found and passed on to a solicitor.
His uncle had left him everything - house and outbuildings, car, animals, and, surprisingly, savings of over eleven thousand pounds. The solicitor read out a statement from the will. ‘I am leaving everything to my nephew Hector Ian Snodd, in the belief that this act of charity will inspire him to mend his ways and take the path of God to everlasting salvation.’
Hector took the path to the high street and bought the best hi-fi system available. He installed it and himself in the croft house, opened the windows, and introduced every creature for miles around to the majesty of symphonic music.
On that very special first evening, he wanted to play music that exactly matched his remote rural surroundings, and the new way he felt about it. For the first time, he was seeing it as a place of space and freedom, instead of a dour prison.
He started with Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, but decided that it was too genteel. Perfect for the lush meadows and forests it described, but not bare and hard like the northern Scottish coast. It had to be Sibelius - any symphony.
The gulls took off from the fields, the sheep lifted their heads, as the shimmering, spacious, glorious sound surged over the rugged headland.
Later, he sold the sheep, bought some new furniture, and traded in his uncle’s old banger for a newer car.
*
A few weeks after moving into the croft house, Hector was invited by Callum McDonald to train as a laboratory technician to replace a staff member who was leaving. Presumably, his boss felt some Christian responsibility for him after the death of his uncle.
He was sent to British Nuclear Fuels central concrete laboratory at Sellafield to attend a series of concrete technology training courses. He had never been south of Inverness, and found the whole business of travelling, finding accommodation, and attending courses, stressful. But he persevered, and managed to pass his examinations.
During the courses he became infected with his tutor’s enthusiasm for concrete. It wasn’t the boring, grey, man-made material he had thought. It was the scientific blending of natural materials - stones, sands, cements and waters, each with an infinite variety of sizes, strengths, porosities, viscosities, hardnesses, absorptions, colours.
Hector found the whole subject fascinating, and he threw himself enthusiastically into his work when he returned to his laboratory.
Things were looking up. Now he was a man of property, with a good job, and two absorbing passions - music and concrete. His third passion, Kathleen Rinaldi, still remained a fantasy of the night.