For a time, almost hypnotised, I can’t take my eyes off him.  The heavy instrument is embedded in his neck – he’s not completely decapitated but surely as near as makes no difference.  I’d always wondered how I’d react to the sight of blood, and now looking down at my victim and watching the dark liquid pool between the cobbles of the street, my principle emotion is, shockingly, a kind of relief, certainly not guilt and certainly not regret.  I fleetingly wonder what sort of person I have become, knowing that I’ve crossed a line and that I’ll never be able go back.

Shaking away my introspection and reconnecting to a reality of sorts, I bend to drag Musgrove’s body into the alley and behind the dumpster.  At the same time I turn part-way to face the car’s headlights and to my astonishment, blocking the road just a few metres in front of me, is a police transit van.  Stunned almost rigid, it takes a second for me to react before I let go of Musgrove’s limp body and turn to run.  Behind me the door of the van slides open, followed by a male voice shouting frantically into a police radio, giving details and my description.  I sprint down the alley, almost immediately stumbling over a roll of discarded carpet and only just managing to stay upright.  It’s too narrow for the transit but already I can hear the officer pursuing on foot as I leave the alley and dash across the adjacent road.  After weeks of cross-country training I’m physically strong and confident that if it’s down to a foot race I stand a decent chance of evading capture.  But with the siren from the transit blasting out in the near distance I know it’s only a matter of time before more police are on the way. Maybe even the force helicopter is airborne, with its infra-red camera guiding my pursuers on the ground.

For the next five minutes I continue at speed, though not quite flat-out, knowing that I’ve got several miles to cover and I need to pace myself.  The rain is beginning to fall more heavily, slowing my progress as I slip repeatedly on the greasy and poorly surfaced pavements.

With the initial shock subsiding I curse my bad luck.  In my meticulous planning I’d envisaged numerous shit-hits-the-fan scenarios but never that I’d be witnessed in the act and the police would be after me so quickly.  Of course by now I’d hoped, with Musgrove dead and my crime unwitnessed, that I’d be calmly heading to the train station and on to the airport hotel before my flight to Rio de Janeiro and safety.  I know it’s a cliché for fugitives to head for South America but it seemed the ideal solution.  Once in my discreet rented apartment, I would keep tabs on the internet and TV news and if there was any hint that the authorities suspected my involvement, I would keep my head down and stay put. On the other hand, if I were in the clear I’d return to Britain at my leisure.  But no more; the elements of my contingency plan are now at the fore of my thinking and it’s essential that I get to the first of my bolt-holes in Graves Park to regroup before the push to the more secure hideaway in the remote Peak District National Park.

Born and raised in Sheffield, I’m intimately familiar with the geography and the many public parks and woodland that link, almost without interruption, the centre of town to Graves Park on the outskirts and from there to the isolation of the Peak District beyond.  But first I must get away from the built-up areas where I’m sure capture is more likely, and reach Millhouses Park, the first link in the chain of quiet and secluded parklands that I pray will be my route to freedom.

My thighs are burning and my chest tightening but I keep going.  Buoyed up by the surge of adrenaline and the desperate desire to avoid capture, I run through the largely residential streets with the footsteps and heavy breathing of the chasing copper becoming gradually fainter.  The wailing siren from the police transit is also beginning to fade: presumably the narrow streets with speed bumps and one-way sections limit the promptness of the police to give chase or to organize any form of roadblock.

Millhouses Park, my immediate goal, is now less than a couple of miles away.  I leave behind the narrow streets of Linton Green and run through the more affluent area of suburban Millhouses where the roads are wider and tree-lined.  There are fewer pedestrians but more traffic on the road and I’ve no doubt that every passing motorist is questioning my bizarre behaviour.  Wearing everyday clothes and running at speed at this time of night, it’s difficult to look anything but suspicious, but I can’t afford to worry about it now.  I have to keep going.  I set myself targets to reach: next lamppost, next junction, next red car; anything to keep the momentum going.

In the distance I can hear sirens, more than one, growing louder and seemingly coming from different directions.  Come on, Julian, come on, I urge with the park now in sight on the far side of a dual carriageway.  There’s a gap in the traffic and I sprint across the road and, like an Olympic steeple-chaser, hurdle the waist-high barrier in the central reservation and then head for the park gates a hundred metres or so away, the darkness and seclusion drawing me in.  Within thirty seconds I’ve made it, and I pause exhausted in the darkness of the park entrance, hands on hips and gulping in the cold night air.  I turn to look for the officer on foot but there’s no sign of him; presumably he’s some way back in the maze of streets.  But within seconds, from different directions, two police cars pull up almost simultaneously in the middle of the dual carriageway – so near to me but oblivious to my presence in the darkness.

The arrival of the police serves to focus my mind more sharply, and I head for the shelter of the park and then turn right to follow a deserted cycle path.  After a few hundred metres I leave the path and sprint across the adjacent cricket pitch, heading for the public toilets just beyond.  In the near total darkness I trip over a knee-high rope marking the edge of the batting-square and skid on my belly across the wet grass.  But I’m back on my feet in seconds and make my way to the toilets, a small flat-roofed building covered in graffiti.

To my relief the conveniences are empty, though it comes as no great surprise.  They’re rarely cleaned, and with the lights not working you’d have to be pretty desperate to frequent such a place after nightfall.  I take the torch out of the front pocket of the rucksack, switch it on and then balance it on the edge of the cracked porcelain sink.  With some difficulty I remove the small key from the pocket of my soaking wet jeans, now clinging to me like a second skin, and then unlock the padlock sealing the door of the end cubicle.  Still struggling for breath, I take out the mountain bike I’d stashed earlier and attach the front wheel to the quick-release mechanism.  With the bike reassembled, I stand on the toilet base and lift the heavy porcelain lid of the old-fashioned cistern a couple of metres off the ground.  I reach into the icy cold water, pull out a tightly sealed plastic bag, and empty the contents onto the closed toilet lid.  I take out the still-dry trainers, grey jogging bottoms and hooded Nike top and begin peeling off my soaking wet jeans and jacket.  I’m shocked at the amount of blood staining my top and dripping onto the floor.  In my adrenaline-heightened state I’d felt little in the way of pain, but as I study my reflection in the rusty mirror on the toilet wall I can see a five-centimetre square flap of skin and tissue hanging from the underside of my jaw.  As I move closer to the mirror and readjust the torch to get a better view I can see that the wound is still bleeding; not spouting like an artery, but definitely a good sized vein has been severed.  I grab a hanky from my rucksack, wedge it into the crook of my neck, and secure it tightly with the scarf.  It crosses my mind that the machete, still embedded in Musgrove’s neck, will be covered in traces of my blood and no doubt ripe for forensic analysis, but I can’t allow myself to worry about it now.  I quickly put on the clean jogging gear, shove the blood-stained clothing into the toilet cistern, force down the lid and leave the toilets with the bike.