Ice Cold Blood

by David W. Millar

  ‘He’s happy for you to continue to take charge of the case and will be in touch later for a briefing.’

  Tosh nodded, pleased to be given the opportunity to head up the investigation. There was always a chance someone else with more experience might have been drafted in. But he was surprised at the way this information was being disseminated. A phone call from Campbell to discuss things would have been the usual method.

  ‘Did he say anything else I should know?’

  ‘His mother is quite ill so he’s taking some compassionate leave. From what I gather it’s only a matter of days. There was a phone call during our conversations, and he had to leave immediately. I said I’d pass things on.’

  ‘I knew she wasn’t well but didn’t think it was at that stage. That’s tough.’

  ‘Well you’re the main man. My report of the examination into this woman’s death is officially yours.’

  ‘Right what can you tell us about how she died?’

  ‘Before I go into details can I ask if you’re any closer to identification?’

  ‘Not really sir,’ McIntyre announced, trying to edge his way into the conversation. ‘No one’s been reported missing so far and we’ve had no replies to the TV appeal.’

  ‘A TV appeal?’

  ‘Just the usual stuff, a woman’s body with head injuries found on the hills and anyone who might have seen a climber fitting her description to get in touch, but nothing.’ Tosh replied, a slight edge to his voice at the continuing lack of information from the pathologist. ‘Did you find anything that might help?’

  ‘Humour me for a bit, Bill. It’s a lonely job being a pathologist. I don’t get to chat with my patients. What about forensics, did they say anything?’

  ‘There were various fibres on her body that they’re trying still to identify, nothing on the ice axe and some fingerprints on the whisky bottle. The climbing boots were her size, and their worn contours fitted the profile of her feet so there’s little doubt she had been wearing them. The clothes left in the pile were also her size, and again there is convincing evidence she had been wearing the jeans. But there was nothing in the pockets. The boots and her jacket were decent quality but could have been bought anywhere. As I said there are apparently some tiny fibres on her upper arm which didn’t fit with any of her clothes, but the scientists can’t get any identification and they might just be incidental, maybe fibres from previous garments she had on before wearing her climbing stuff.’

  ‘The climbing poles were also quite worn and again no indication where or when they were purchased,’ McIntyre added. ‘The ice axe was wooden and looked quite old. Two small folding snow shovels were found nearby which might have been used to dig the snow-hole; no prints or fibres on them, but they looked new and we’re trying local suppliers to see if they stocked them and sold any recently.’

  ‘Not a lot to go on then?’

  ‘We did a fingertip search as best we could around the snow-hole. The only thing we found was a large spring.’

  ‘A spring,’ Wallace echoed. ‘What sort of spring?’

  McIntyre dug out a photo from a folder in front of him, passing it to the pathologist.

  ‘Would any climbers use one of these?’

  ‘Not that I know of sir. It was found a distance from the snow-hole and could have been dropped by anyone and then covered by the snow. It could have just fallen off something, though no idea what. It looks quite old and is pretty strong.’

  Tosh wanted to ask where all this was leading but knew it was better to keep his mouth shut and play along. Wallace was good at his job and there would be a reason for this preamble before he got around to what he had gleaned from examining the body.

  ‘What were your first impressions when you looked inside the hole? I’m directing that question at both of you.’

  ‘Not really sure what you mean professor,’ McIntyre spoke first. ‘There was a naked woman lying in the snow with an axe rammed through her head and her clothes in a neat pile. It looked clear she’d been murdered. Then it was a case of not disturbing things until you and forensics arrived.’

  ‘What about you Bill?’

  ‘Much the same as Ian said but…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Things looked strange and I thought there would have been more blood around for someone who’d just had an axe put through their head.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the problem. I can’t really pinpoint the time of death and neither can I be a 100 percent sure on how she died. There’s undoubted sharp force trauma to the head; the point of the ice axe severing various blood vessels before penetrating the brain itself. This would certainly have led to her death. The amount of internal bleeding is not as much as I would have expected.’

  McIntyre looked bewildered. ‘But sir she’d an ice axe through her head. How else could she have died?’

  ‘Hypothermia,’ Tosh interjected quietly.

  ‘Yes, that is a possibility and unfortunately I can’t be sure. There was a fair amount of alcohol in her bloodstream, probably from the whisky that was found in the snow-hole and that combined with the cold could have made her lose consciousness or she could even have died before someone drove the axe through her head.’

  ‘That’s still murder.’

  ‘If unconscious yes, but already dead no. Legally speaking I wouldn’t know if it’s an offence to mutilate a corpse.’

  ‘Why would someone put an axe through someone’s head if they were already dead? And if this woman wasn’t dead this person could surely have just waited an hour or so until she was dead.’

  ‘Indeed, these were my thoughts exactly.’

  ‘Can you give us anything to go on, anything you thought was unusual when you examined her,’ Tosh asked.

  ‘There was no sign of a struggle, no bruises on her body but there were areas that looked like the skin had been compressed by something hard, like a rigid plastic. A combination of death and cold meant the skin hadn’t returned to normal. There was also a fresh bruise on her chin.’

  ‘Snow goggles? That might have compressed her face.’

  ‘That’s what I thought Ian, but the mark pattern on her body didn’t fit with goggles.’

  ‘Maybe the cord from the hood of a climbing jacket?’ McIntyre replied, pleased at the recognition from the pathologist and the use of his first name. ‘If the wind’s blowing bits of snow about climbers often over-tighten their hoods for protection.’

  ‘I’m not sure that would fit the pattern either.’

  ‘Is that all we’ve got?’ Tosh sighed.

  ‘There were clear traces of an antidepressant in her blood. The lab is trying to identify which one.’

  ‘Well that narrows it down to ten million people,’ Tosh groaned, earning a disapproving look from the pathologist.

  ‘It can all help with identification, so don’t be so dismissive.’

  ‘There’s so many questions regarding this case I don’t know where to start.’

  Wallace smiled sardonically. ‘Well it’s your job to get out there and find the answers, oh and one more thing. She’d had sex with someone shortly before she died. There was semen inside her.’

  ---oOo---

  Joe Flint always liked his name. It was unusual, hard sounding and well suited to his eventual profession. He liked to think of himself as hard, though maybe tough was a better description - someone who could cope with adversity and extremes of discomfort. Even the nickname at school of Freddie had seemed appropriate, making him stand out in the class, especially when his teachers at school started calling him by it.

  Despite being chubby in his early teens, there was now no fat on his body thanks to a controlled diet and regular gym sessions. Flint would also have liked to describe himself as someone who worked hard and played hard, but since his job was also his passion that description was incongruous.
As an outdoor instructor running his own business, he taught canoeing, skiing, sailing and hang gliding. But his true passion was climbing.

  Being 55, Flint now used the experience gained on the mountains to compensate for a body that could not quite take the punishment it had endured in the past.

  Wise investments from an inheritance when his aunt died and money from his parents had allowed him to start his own business. He had called it ‘Just get oot there’. Based in the Scottish Highlands it had done well. He specialised in heading up the winter climbing unit taking climbers abroad, often to South America and Canada but mostly to Asia.

  Impressive personal credentials including the scaling of various iconic peaks such as Mount McKinlay, now called Denali, and several peaks in South America, attracted clients looking for extreme challenges. An attention to detail and rigorous forward planning had earned the company an excellent reputation. A sister company, formed with a friend, was based in Switzerland and Flint often spent months there, leaving his second-in-command to run the business in Scotland.

  He was also an accomplished skier having represented Scotland as a junior. He had survived three avalanches when on trips to the Alps, drawn by the thrill of off-piste skiing, and a habit of ignoring red warning flags. The inflatable avalanche bag he always carried had probably saved his life each time. He was also lucky to be alive when his snowboard hit a hidden rock propelling him off the edge of a steep slope where he careered out of control before coming to rest forty feet below. His friends were amazed when he was able to return with only minor bruising and continue snowboarding.

  The worst accident was from a winter climb nearer home in Scotland. That debacle had resulted in two pins in both legs after falling from a cornice on Ben Nevis that suddenly broke and he fell 20 feet onto a rock. What made it worse was he knew it was his own fault. Rehab had been torture, and eventually he had ignored the doctor’s instructions, climbing weeks before the bones had properly healed.

  He knew he had been lucky not to have been killed. Nonetheless it was also a learning experience teaching him to study these overhangs of snow and avoid climbing when there was a danger of a repeat performance. After all he always told his clients that preparing for the unexpected was a key factor in all outdoor activities.

  There had been flurries of one-night stands with women and a string of broken relationships, the longest lasting eight months. He knew settling down with a wife and kids was never a serious proposition since he was away for months at a time and cabin fever would burn after two weeks stuck at home in either his cottage near Glencoe or the flat he owned in Wales. Nonetheless, at 55 there was regret at not having any children to take on the mountains to teach them how to climb. His two younger brothers preferred indoor sports. Both had children and ‘Uncle Joe’ had taken them on the slopes when they were quite young, all roped together on gentle climbs in Scotland. They had loved it and so had he.

  There was one woman who had got under his skin; someone quick to learn and single-minded in her approach. He had watched her develop into someone who could match him on the most extreme routes.

  Strong, lean, fit and nimble together with a good head for heights she could speed climb better than him without being foolhardy or taking chances. He had never once seen her fall, even when roped. She was often the lead climber when he took a group out on the corries.

  Snow and ice were her least favourite climbing terrain, but she was dogged and stubborn, happy to push herself to the limit. Like many women on these expeditions, he knew she felt the cold more than the men.

  Often exhausted and shivering when they made camp for the night after a day trudging through the snow against a bitter wind she never complained. He always felt her build and physiology made her prone to hypothermia but her terse reply when asked how she felt was always the same - fine.

  He would have offered her a permanent job within his company but knew she had no interest in working towards the outdoor qualifications required to take people onto the mountain. She climbed for her own enjoyment, competitive yes, but not obsessed with being the best - just a desire to see how far she could go.

  And that was a powerful attraction.

  Chapter 6

  The third letter was written in gothic style lettering with a fountain pen, yet each word was perfect with no blotches. The lines were evenly spaced and perfectly straight - a complete contrast to his writing which was spidery and sloped towards the bottom of the page. He thought it must have taken hours to write, but later in their relationship he witnessed her calligraphy skills and the speed at which she could fashion words using any style. And while this was the only piece of correspondence not written in her usual handwriting, subsequent envelopes were often addressed in assorted styles.

  He remembered the sex had been incredible and exhausting. Ellie was attentive and innovative - but also demanding. After the hand squeezing competition, they had stripped each other rapidly before diving onto the bed. Her laughter was contagious, and she had surprised him by suddenly leaping naked to her feet, to stand on top of the bed while raising her arms.

  ‘Am I your goddess?’ she had said before quoting lines from Julius Caesar.

  He had entered the spirit of the game grabbing the sheet from the bed and wrapping it toga style around his body while beating his chest, telling her she was to be the lover of a Roman emperor.

  When they finally settled down on the bed, she had taken his erection in one hand and wagged a finger in his face with the other.

  ‘Don’t you dare come too soon.’ Her words had carried a playful tone though there was no mistaking their intention.

  ‘That might be difficult,’ he had replied as she had straddled his body taking him inside her.

  ‘If you concentrate on me as I will concentrate on you then accidents won’t happen. I expect a minimum of two orgasms when you might be happy with one.’

  Willpower prevailed and he had managed, after what he considered impressive self- control, to ensure her at least one loud and expressive climax he was convinced the whole street would have heard. They then lay on the bed, both panting and laughing while she informed him the second one could wait till morning.

  She was the most exciting woman he had ever known.

  Dear Euan

  Do not be alarmed by my choice of script for this letter as I consider the gothic style, like the multi-headed hydra, mysterious and romantic as well as morbid or foreboding. I felt therefore it was appropriate after our night of passion, since two people making love for the first time can experience the darker side of their partner’s inner psyche as well as the good. Sometimes you can look into your lover’s eyes and see their soul. I saw glimpses of yours but wonder if you saw mine?

  And you were quite magnificent in bed Euan! I have to confess that I have had a quite a few lovers, but you should not feel threatened or embarrassed by that statement, for you are certainly in the top three in terms of performance. (As an engineer I know you like facts and figures, but you will be relieved I am not going to award marks out of ten!) For me it is good to talk about our feelings and experiences for then our pleasure from any future lovemaking can only increase.

  Your sense of playfulness matched mine and our game of Romanesque lovers at the start was so much fun. That is something I have never experienced before. You entered into the spirit of the game, looked very masculine and made me so aroused. Perhaps you could tell! Someone said that we remember moments rather than days. Well I will certainly remember that moment when, standing on my bed, you beat your chest as a Roman emperor.

  When we finally settled down to the more serious side of our first night together, I felt you connected well in the foreplay, making eye contact which I love, and your caress of my face was gentle yet so arousing. You took on board my ‘advice’ regarding premature accidents postponing your pleasure so I could achieve mine. I know that can be difficult for a man wh
en he is with a new woman, but you probably heard how grateful I was!

  I hope this detailed account does not seem too calculating or boring. I feel it is important and want you to know that you met my needs as a lover which goes beyond the mere mechanics of copulation. That slow build-up was deliberate and exciting, both increasing and extending the pleasure of our lovemaking. You found erogenous zones I never knew I had!

  And then you surprised me by making my breakfast in the morning!

  You are such a considerate person and that was another first for you amongst the men I have known. (They were usually sound asleep when I got up!) I don’t know if you used my secret formula, but that boiled egg was timed to perfection and the coffee you brewed was delicious. I was surprised at the amount of food you can pack away, but there is little fat on your body so no doubt a combination of regular exercise and good genes keeps you in fantastic condition.

  Then we talked for about an hour. I learned about your time at Strathclyde University and your career as an engineer. I told you about my time in Gloucester studying art and the company I work for. And when you mentioned your passion was climbing and hill walking, I nearly fell out of bed for that is my sport too! I could not believe it and had to leap out of bed and open my wardrobe to show you all my climbing gear! Then we discussed climbs and peaks around the world that we had both conquered.

  And then we made love again! And once more you were considerate, bringing me to an orgasm as good as the night before. I have hinted at the number of men who have shared my bed, but I wonder how many women you have entertained between the sheets?! Judging from the skills shown I would guess there have been quite a few? Maybe we can share our experiences later? For I do hope there will be a later.

  But as Heraclitus said, ‘No man can step into the same river twice, for he’s not the same man and it’s not the same river’. So I will be a different river, one that may be dangerous to enter, and you will be a different man who has to consider taking the plunge.