by Alex Walters
'You're too kind, Inspector. I'll treat it as a priority. It's not a good one, this, is it?'
'Few of them are. But this is looking worse than most.'
Chapter 11
'You boys ought to be heading home,' Brain said. He was standing at the living room window, holding back the curtain, peering into the night. 'Coming thick and fast now.' He spoke with some relish, as though introducing city folk to country conditions they might not have previously encountered.
Winterman was at the kitchen door. 'He's right. If we don't make a move soon, we're going to get stranded.'
Mrs Griffiths and her daughter were sitting on either side of a roaring coal fire. The older woman looked pale and slightly shocked, Mary concerned and attentive. For a moment, Winterman regarded the young woman.
She looked in her mid-twenties, but with a maturity of manner that suggested someone older. Her face was pale and drawn, her hair pulled tightly back, her clothes plain and anonymous – a white blouse, a grey skirt, neat black patent-leather shoes. She looked strained. Not surprising, given the day's events. But there was something in her expression that made him wonder.
Mrs Griffiths looked up suddenly. 'You're not going to leave us here. With that.' She looked towards the back of the house, her subject unmistakable.
'We don't have much choice, Mrs Griffiths. There's nothing more we can do till morning.' Winterman paused, wondering how much more to say. 'We need to ensure everything's looked after properly out there. We'll need a team from headquarters. I don't think we can do that tonight, in this weather, but we'll get someone out first thing.' He glanced across at Mary. 'Is there nowhere else you can stay?'
She shook her head. 'Not really. I mean, the neighbours might… But we wouldn't want to impose. I'm sure we'll be fine, really.' She looked across at her mother. 'I'm sure we will.'
Winterman gestured towards Brain. 'PC Brain will look after you. You're in safe hands.'
Brain frowned, unsure whether he was being complimented or patronised. 'Of course. I'll take care of things.'
Winterman nodded his thanks, then let his gaze flicker meaningfully towards the kitchen and the back door. 'And I'd be grateful if you could ensure that nothing is disturbed.'
Brain nodded with some enthusiasm. 'Of course, sir. You can rely on me.'
'Sir,' Marsh said. He was looking past Brain, through the uncurtained window, into the snow-filled night.
'I know,' Winterman said. 'We need to go. Before we get trapped.' He looked at Mrs Griffiths, wishing he had bitten back the last word. 'Let's go,' he said again.
Chapter 12
Madness, Pyke thought, lowering his head.
He was struggling to see even a few yards in front of him. A frozen wind was sweeping in from the east, off the fens, driving the snow across the road and almost toppling him as he rode.
In fact, the wind was his only salvation. It came and went, buffeting his exposed body, rendering his progress unstable. But the blizzard at least drove the snow across the road, piling up drifts against the hedgerows to his left. The surface itself was for the moment relatively clear, apart from the odd treacherous patch of black ice. As long as he stuck to the right-hand side, he could make some progress.
But it was madness to be travelling at all on a night like this. More than madness to be doing so on a motorcycle.
Pyke was a skilled cyclist. He had learnt before the war and then had the chance to hone his skills in the army. The bike was an ex-military Enfield he'd picked up for a song from an old contact. It was a terrific machine – fast, tough, reliable.
But bloody suicidal on a night like this.
He should have left earlier. He should, for that matter, have refused to bloody well come out in the first place. Poor little kiddie, whoever she was, but she'd been dead long enough. She could have waited another day.
He travelled a further mile or so before it happened. He had been travelling as slowly as the bike would allow, and that probably saved his life. But suddenly he lost control, the machine skidding from under him, a blur of white and black as he was thrown backwards. Somewhere he saw an arc of golden sparks as the bike careered into the field beyond, and the impact of the road crushed all breath from his body.
He lay, the falling snow kaleidoscoping across his vision, wondering how badly injured he might be. It finally occurred to him that, perhaps, he was almost untouched. The combination of the drifted snow, his heavy leathers and the relatively slow speed had been sufficient to allow him to escape unscathed. His shoulder felt sore, bruised, and there was an ache in his left leg, but nothing that felt serious.
His medical training had taught him it would be unwise to take this diagnosis at face value, but it was good enough to be going on with. He also knew enough not to underestimate the possible effects of shock. He felt unexpectedly calm, but that might not be a good sign.
He pushed himself up to a sitting position. So far, so good. Peering through the blizzard, he finally spotted the black shape of the bike on the snow-covered field. He stood up, realising his body was still shaking. It took him a moment to calm himself, then he walked slowly to the edge of the field. There was no dyke or hedgerow, so he was able to step cautiously across to where the bike lay. The black trail left by its progress was already disappearing under the steadily falling snow.
He raised the motorbike slowly from the ground. The rear mudguard was bent against the tyre, but otherwise the bike seemed undamaged. He tugged hard on the twisted metal, pulling it back from the rubber. Assuming the engine was okay, the bike looked rideable.
What now though? It was another fifteen or so miles home, and the snow was unremitting. The aches in his shoulder and leg were growing more pronounced – still not serious, probably, but likely to cause severe discomfort over a long journey.
There was one obvious answer, though he had resisted the thought until now. He looked at his watch. To his slight surprise, it was only just after eight. It felt much later, as if he had been travelling for hours. Not really too late then. He couldn't use that excuse. Though, of course, the time of night would be the least of the issues.
He slowly wheeled the bike back to the road. Where was he? He had a rough idea – only a couple of miles from Framley. Certainly, still at a point where going back would be much easier than going forward. For all his hesitation, he wasn't sure he had much choice.
He climbed on to the bike and slammed his foot down to start the engine. To his relief, it caught immediately. He hesitated only for a moment longer, then turned the bike back towards Framley.
The worsening state of the road, combined with his own anxiety, rendered the return even more nerve-racking than the outward journey. Twice he almost lost control again, but each time managed to slow, steering skilfully into the skid, finding a grip on the road surface before he lost equilibrium.
Finally, he glimpsed lights ahead, a faint glimmer in the pale darkness. He would soon be at the turning.
He slowed as much as he dared, peering into the night. Even so, he overshot the junction, spotting it only in his peripheral vision after he had passed. This landscape couldn't have been more familiar. He had made this journey dozens of times, could trace it without thinking in the light of day. Tonight, he could scarcely recognise it.
It had never occurred to him to wonder whether Howard would be at home. He knew Howard's habits well enough – or at least he had known them, not so very long ago. It was unlikely that he would be out on a night like this. And if he was – well, the cottage's outbuildings would offer some shelter until the snow lessened.
He spotted the cottage a few hundred yards from the main road, a blank white-painted edifice almost invisible against the swirling snow. The sudden familiarity of it was like a physical shock – unexpected and, he told himself, unwanted. He tried not to think about the last time he had been in this place, but he could not dispel the unarticulated memory of the summer's heat, the scent of wild flowers.
The cottage looked t
o be in darkness, and for a moment Pyke half hoped that Howard really was away. But he knew well enough that Howard's heavy curtains and drapes were sufficient to prevent any chink of light escaping those narrow windows. Even in the blackout, the cottage had needed no additional concealment.
He pushed the motorbike into the lee of the cottage, a small area largely sheltered from the gathering snow. Then he made his way to the imposing front door.
He hesitated only momentarily before raising the heavy wrought-iron knocker. It fell back against the door with a solid thump.
There was a long silence, and with each second that passed, Pyke grew more convinced the cottage was empty. He was reaching out to try the knocker one final time when the door was pulled open.
Howard stood there, his plump body arched back as he squinted short-sightedly into the night. His face wore a baffled slightly aggressive expression. Pyke's recollection was that he wore the same expression whenever anyone knocked unexpectedly on his door, whatever the time of day or year.
'Howard–'
'Goodness me. Look what the snow's swept in.'
'Look, I'm sorry…'
There was something else in Howard's expression, some other emotion Pyke could not pin down. His own voice trailed off as he struggled to find any suitable words.
Unexpectedly, Howard took a step back, pulling the door wide open. A small flurry of snow blew into the hallway, scattering across the polished tiles.
'You'd better come in.'
Chapter 13
Winterman stood at his open back door, staring out into the night. It was after midnight, and the snow was still falling, wave upon wave blown in on the east wind. His garden was thickly covered, its untended chaos temporarily civilised by the undulations of white. There was no sign of the snow lessening. This was set in at least for the night.
That was bad news in every way. He had seen it already that evening – finding themselves almost stranded in bloody Framley as the snow had continued to fall. They had made it back to town in the end, largely thanks to Marsh's driving skills. As it turned out, Hoxton lived, presumably alone, in a rented cottage only a mile or so outside Framley, and they had dropped him on the way. Many of the roads across the county would be impassable and it would be some time before they were cleared.
Winterman could feel the cold emptiness of the house behind him. It had always felt too big, this place, though as a child he had loved the sense of space, the hidden corners. Its vastness – its high Edwardian ceilings, silent unused bedrooms, the over-formal parlour still as his parents had left it – only mocked his isolation. He should sell up, buy himself a neat little flat somewhere, stash away a few quid. Give himself some choices.
The snow continued to come down, whipped by the frozen easterly wind, drifting against the walls, piling deep against the French windows. If this continued, he wouldn't even be able to get out of the house the next day.
He stood for a few more moments, his eyes fixed blankly on the eddying snow, his mind a decade away, wondering how it had come to this. Then, with a sense of desolation as great as if he were literally closing off a route into that past, he pushed the door firmly shut and locked up for the night.
Chapter 14
That was it, William thought. His usual exquisite sense of timing.
He had been planning to return to medical school. He'd checked the trains were running, and had even been out to buy his railway ticket the previous day, seeing it as a tangible demonstration of his intentions. A third-class ticket to Nottingham, knowing that his father would happily have shelled out for first class if it guaranteed William's departure. A single, not a return, even knowing that he would inevitably come back and that the cost would be greater. But, as he had counted out the money at the station, it had felt as if he was making a clear statement.
A worthless statement, as it had turned out, like virtually every one he made. He had not gone, had been seduced by another night with his friends, another night in the pub. Come on, they had said. We can't let you go without a celebration. A farewell party. What's one more night?
A pretty deadly night, as it had turned out. The pub had been empty, its interior reeking of stale beer and smoke, already redolent of the morning after. The friends who had urged him to stay had, for the most part, not bothered to turn up. The few who were there seemed morose, already bored at the evening's start. More snow had come down, just as forecast, and everybody was keen to get home before it really set in. William was stranded here until the snow cleared.
Ten o'clock had found William tramping home alone, his gait unsteady from the beer and chasers, the road treacherous underfoot, his feet cold and soaking inside his thin shoes, his body numbed by the knife-like wind. Deeply miserable, deeply fed up.
The snow was falling much more thickly than he had realised. Although it was drifting in the bitter wind, it was beginning to cover the road again. He pulled his coat more closely around him, tightening his college scarf around his neck.
At the end of the main street, he lost his footing momentarily, his legs skidding from under him. He reached out to steady himself against a low cottage wall, but missed and tumbled over, falling clumsily into the snow.
He rolled over and lay on his back, staring up into the falling snow. He had a sudden vision of himself not bothering to rise again, succumbing to his warm alcoholic stupor, relaxing into unconsciousness as the snow covered him with its frozen blanket.
This was how people died, he thought, his embryonic medical training nagging at his mind. Hypothermia, overcome by the siren lure of the drink, relaxing into oblivion. He could imagine his body lying here undiscovered, to be found only in the thaw, when the snow would slowly melt to expose his lifeless features.
He laughed suddenly, overcome by the absurd melodrama of the image. Recovering his strength and equilibrium, he dragged himself upright, resting for a moment on his hands and knees.
He was soaked, his trouser legs dripping and cold, gloved hands frozen. If he wasn't careful, his melodramatic vision might end up being realised after all. He needed to keep moving.
He wondered whether he should return to the relative shelter of the pub. But it was already past closing time, and there was no chance the landlord would welcome after-hours visitors tonight. In any case, the prospect of a return to those bleak rooms – the smell of smoke and stale beer, the stained table tops, the lingering air of forced joviality – was hardly enticing.
William trudged on, struggling to maintain his balance, pounding heavily through the dense drifts, making slow but steady progress out of the village. The flurrying flakes stung his eyes, and he kept his head down, peering under the brim of his hat, walking with the rhythmic gait of an automaton.
A quarter of a mile out of the village, he was surprised by a sudden lessening of the icy east wind against his damp cheeks. He glanced up to gain his bearings.
He was passing the ruined cottage – the place where the reverend, old Fisher, had supposedly stumbled across that child's body a few weeks before. In the snow, the place had gained an unexpectedly benign air, its crumbling framework softened by the growing drifts, its rotting timbers camouflaged a uniform white. He glanced at the old building, thinking again of the poor child's body, and shuddered.
He pulled his coat more tightly around him and trudged on. This was insane. He wouldn't make it. He would collapse out here in the night, too cold and exhausted to continue. It would be an absurd but fitting death – a young life lost because he had been unable to resist one more night in the pub.
Home was another mile or more away – a suitably sobering walk even on a fine evening. Tonight, it was looking increasingly impossible.
The reverend. The thought came to William suddenly, and he wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. Fisher's was the next cottage along the road – still another quarter mile or so, but surely reachable. If Fisher was capable of making this journey, at his age and usual state of inebriation, then it couldn't be beyond W
illiam's powers even on a night like this.
Emboldened by the prospect, he paced on with renewed energy. The reverend wouldn't be pleased to see him, of course. He had never encouraged visitors to his cottage. On the contrary, he had always refused any bloody visitors – never let anyone near the place.
But he was – had been – a clergyman. Whatever the state of his faith now, he surely wouldn't refuse William sanctuary in this kind of weather.
William stumbled on, feeling the melting snow dripping down his neck, the sweat soaking his hair beneath his hat. He slipped again, almost falling, and felt the despair overwhelming him. It was impossible. It was too far. It was too cold and wet. He was too drunk.
Then he saw it – the square dark silhouette of Fisher's cottage, squat against the shifting, whirling sky.
There were no lights in the cottage, no sign of life. But there was nowhere else Fisher would be on a night like this. The only excursions he ever made were to the pub, and he had not been in there earlier in the evening. Probably he had already gone to bed. If so, William would have no qualms about waking him up.
He forced his way up the path to the cottage's front door. The place was pretty run down. The paint peeling, the roof tiles sagging in the porch, one window cracked. William raised the rusty iron knocker, its hinge creaking from disuse, and slammed it hard against the wooden door. The thud echoed internally, the sound deadened by the endless miles of snow.
William strained his ears for any sound of movement. The old man surely wouldn't just ignore his presence. William would just keep hammering away at the door until he had to take notice. He raised the knocker again and dropped it, as heavily as he could.
Despair was creeping back. What if the old man was sound asleep? What if he couldn't hear the knocking, no matter how loudly William banged this bloody piece of metal?
