Back-Slash by Bill Kitson Page B

anything else. After all, she’d saved his life. He knew Barry and Shirley Dickinson would look after Nell. How far their willingness to help would stretch was something he’d find out in the near future. He bound his wound as best he could and donned a clean shirt. On an impulse, he reached into the wardrobe and from behind the stacked shirts pulled out a slim document case and stuffed it inside a carrier. He collected the dog, closed the door and set off in his Land Rover down the lane; each bump and pot-hole sending fresh waves of pain through his body.
    Barry and Shirley Dickinson listened to Myers’ tale with growing incredulity. When he blurted out the news of the attack Barry immediately said, ‘I’ll phone the police.’
    ‘Hang on. Don’t do that. Please, hear me out. There’s worse to come.’
    They were in the lounge of the keeper’s house. Myers was in an armchair, or rather perching on the edge of the seat, with Nell sitting leaning against his knee.
    Barry and Shirley sat on the sofa. By the end they too were on the edge of their seats, staring at the man they thought they knew. The man they realized didn’t even exist.
    ‘Christ, Andy, what a bloody mess.’ Barry said.
    ‘Alan,’ Shirley suggested.
    He turned to look at his wife. ‘What?’
    ‘His name’s Alan,’ Shirley said.
    ‘Look,’ Myers/Marshall said. ‘If this is too much for you, just say so and I’ll push off.’
    The couple looked at one another. ‘You’ll do no such thing.’ Shirley spoke for both of them. ‘Just give us time to get used to it.’
    ‘I keep thinking you could have been lying dead in a pool of blood on your kitchen floor,’ Barry said. ‘Why the hell were you attacked?’
    ‘Let’s go back to when Anna was killed. If you take my word that I didn’t do it, then who did? Suppose that same person killed Moran and discovered where I was living. It would be dead easy to frame me for Moran’s murder. I’d be the obvious choice. Who had more reason to hate Moran? To be sure Icouldn’t defend myself, they dispose of me. What I can’t for the life of me work out is how they knew where I live?’
    ‘So who are
they
?’ Barry asked.
    ‘That’s the problem. I’ve no more idea than I did when it happened. At least I didn’t, until now.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Shirley asked.
    Marshall took a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘When the car drove off I made a note of its number plate. Not too difficult for me as it turned out: ACM, my initials. All I have to do is find out who the car’s registered to.’
    ‘How can you find out who owns the car?’ Shirley asked. ‘I thought that sort of information was only available to the police?’
    Marshall told them. They listened with even greater incredulity than before. ‘You’re mad,’ Barry said. ‘You’ll finish up in the slammer.’
    ‘I agree,’ Shirley said. ‘Are you sure there’s no other way?’
    ‘None that I can think of. I know it’s risky, but what have I got to lose? Before long every police officer in the land will be dreaming of the promotion he’ll get by capturing me. I might as well go for broke. The only way I can stay out of prison is to find out who actually committed these murders.’
    ‘How will you do that if you’re on the run with no one to help you?’ Shirley asked.
    Marshall shook his head wearily. ‘I don’t know. But I have to try.’
    ‘What do you want us to do, Alan?’ Marshall was mildly surprised that it was Shirley who asked the question, her husband Barry was less so. Shirley was soft-hearted and the sadness behind Marshall’s story would have engaged her sympathy. Even before this latest bombshell he knew Shirley felt sorry for Marshall in his lonely existence.
    ‘I don’t like to ask,’ Marshall replied. ‘I don’t want to get you into trouble. If the police find out you’ve helped me they might class you as accessories.’
    ‘That would only be true if you’d committed these murders,’