The Snow Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  Ronnie disappeared often in those early months. When I asked where he went, he simply replied, ‘Putting affairs in order.’

  Ronnie could best be summed up as ‘the son of a poacher’. His father taught him all he knew, but it wasn’t only animals that Ronnie stole. Pretty much anything not nailed down was fair game. Even securely fastened things were loosened and quickly sold on. In the end, I became his partner in crime. He didn’t speak a great deal, but I think he began to enjoy having me around. There was great value in another pair of eyes in his line of work.

  The only thing he’d kept of his father’s was a hand grenade. The story behind it was the only tale of any note that he ever told me. The first time he spoke of it, he stood me up next to the fire and leaned in. This is what he said:

  ‘The Japanese overran my father’s position at the fall of Singapore in the Second World War. The regiment knew well the enemy’s cruelty to prisoners. With his ammo used and the enemy just feet away, he clutched his last grenade. He couldn’t bring himself to pull the pin and, even though he survived, he left his health and sanity on the Death Railway. After being rescued at the end of the war, he acquired another grenade. He kept it as a souvenir to remind him of his decision.

  ‘Back in England, he found his son, me, staying with an aunt after an air raid had buried his wife. He took me to the woods and we lived an isolated life. He said he’d never be taken alive again, but died of a heart attack in his sleep, so he never had to make that drastic choice. He raised me to feel the same way.’

  I heard that story often. And that belief grew in me too.

  We visited the vicar on numerous occasions. He was partial to game, hare being a favourite of his, although he received a TV once. He often gave me a few pennies and a wink. To my astonishment, Ronnie knew nearly everyone. They cheered his arrival. Backhanders and deals filtered through every office and factory.

  I put the murders to the back of my mind. Tears wouldn’t help my predicament. We only made one visit to the family graves in Peterborough. When we arrived, fresh flowers lay on the stone. Ronnie had left instructions and money for them to be placed there regularly.

  I existed as Ronnie did; a hand-to-mouth life with brief flashes of danger. He taught me how to shoot and lay traps. We relieved washing lines of their contents when we needed new clothes.

  Ronnie instilled in me a desire to keep fit. His twenty-minute exercise regime most mornings also became mine. It stilled my mind. We would run together, sometimes by choice, other times when people chased us.

  Gradually, I emerged from the shadow of that terrible night. I read anything from books to the magazines and newspapers we’d find. Mainly to relieve the boredom. Ronnie only needed cigarettes to achieve the same goal. When we were out, I’d notice other young men and women in brightly coloured clothes and striking hairstyles. By contrast, my own clothes reminded me of vagrants I’d seen in London. I also remembered the cinema trips of my youth. I wanted to see movies again and mentioned this to my uncle.

  That was when we finally talked. I should have known something was wrong because he’d lost weight when he had few pounds to spare. There were places where he hid his money, and we visited them. He also had a leather bag of jewellery, which he kept behind a panel in the caravan. I asked him if he knew who killed my family. He refused to answer, insisting that they’d still be searching for me. He said I should never trust the police. That was why he removed me from the hospital. Besides, revenge wouldn’t bring my sister back.

  It turned out he was quite a few years older than my mother and, even though they were both called Smith, he was only a half-brother. I never really knew who my mother was, and Ronnie didn’t enlighten me.

  A little later, he took me out for a drive. He wanted to take deer from one of the royal estates in Norfolk. It was a rare venture because the rich have the best gamekeepers. I think he just hoped to feel the rawness of the hunt one final time. His carelessness on that last day shocked me. His laboured gait betrayed any reassurances of being okay.

  He crouched and shot a target from a good distance and gave me a melancholic smile. His lack of urgency surprised me. I stepped from foot to foot as he struggled to rise. A big deer is incredibly heavy. We gutted it on the spot to make it lighter and left the innards for the foxes, but it still took some dragging. It was slow going, made worse by Ronnie’s obvious weakness. Human voices whispered nearby. Ronnie fired in their general direction. My pulse quickened as he’d never done anything like that. He wobbled and lurched as he ran.

  It’s strange to think that all those close to me have been killed by guns. The bullet that arrived as we got in the van pierced Ronnie’s back and zipped out the front of his stomach. Must have been a powerful rifle as I later found the bullet embedded in the passenger seat. He managed to pull the door shut, and I drove us away. He’d shot his last deer, but he wouldn’t get to taste it. I headed for the hospital but Ronnie stopped me with a final request. He declared himself ready.

  ‘Take me home,’ he insisted. The caravan had always been his sanctuary.

  ‘Come on, Ronnie. They’ll be able to fix you if we go now.’ I didn’t know if that was true, but it had to be worth trying.

  He placed his hand on my leg and left it there. I gently covered it with my own, not recalling him deliberately touching me before.

  ‘I’ve been bleeding.’ He focused on the distance and swallowed. ‘From the back passage.’

  I returned to the campsite and helped him into a deckchair. He pushed me away when I tried to check the wound.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. Some water, please.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Just quiet.’ His head tilted backwards.

  At that point, I decided I had to know and there wouldn’t be another chance to ask him.

  ‘Who murdered my family?’

  He didn’t reply, but his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

  ‘Come on, Ronnie. Where can I find them?’

  His lips remained shut. His breathing slowed, and I assumed the worst. Suddenly, he whispered the words I needed to hear. ‘The Boy’s Head, Oundle Road.’

  I sat next to him in silence because that was all he wanted. I thought about the killers, and guessed that if they weren’t in prison then they’d got away with it. A plan hadn’t formed at that point, but I understood the life I lived would expire when Ronnie did. He took an hour to die.

  I know Ronnie believed that retribution would not bring my sister back, and he worried that the men were still searching for the only living witness to the crimes.

  I disagreed. I was sure they would have forgotten me, but I would always remember them. And the need for revenge consumed me.

  3

  I collected the valuables that Uncle Ronnie had hidden and found his money. There was a lot. More than I understood the value of. I’d seen pound notes before and knew it would be a while before I needed more.

  I dragged Ronnie into the caravan according to his wishes then placed the rest of his things with him. A man’s whole life barely covered the floor. I squeezed his hand. He would never have made old bones, but he lived how he wanted. He always said it was better to go down in flames, so I watched him burn.

  Despite his violent pursuits, he remained at heart a peaceful man. If someone bettered him or ripped him off, he would take it on the chin with a wry smile, almost as if he was pleased to be tested. No bitterness or rancour darkened his life, no spite or the urge for retaliation kept him up at night. But I was different.

  I drove to Peterborough, bought new clothes from large, confusing shops and got a proper haircut. Smartly dressed women examined my money closely with suspicion. I looked in the window of the newsagent’s near The Boy’s Head and noticed a card looking for a lodger in Black Ermine Street, Orton Longueville – a small village a mile away. That was the same village where they buried my family. It would make my life simpler because I intended to maintain their gra
ves.

  It was as easy as that. My ancient landlady had few concerns as long as I didn’t have more than one bath a week. I told her to call me Ronnie Smith. My uncle would have liked that. She put me upstairs in the loft conversion of her bungalow, while she slept downstairs.

  The first Saturday there, I walked into the pub at lunchtime. Incredibly, all three killers lined the bar, as if they were waiting for me in a cowboy film. Laurel looked smaller, perhaps because Hardy had expanded. Goofy stared hard for a few seconds and then laughed. I thought at first they recognised me, but they were just sniggering at seeing a nervous youngster in their drinking hole. Empty eyes appraised me, and I backed out on trembling legs.

  I found a job on the till at the local newsagent’s. Fortuitous really, as I had only popped in for the paper and discovered him sacking the thief he currently employed. Brutal early starts and long hours for what seemed small change drained my enthusiasm. However, with no friends or family, I had little else with which to occupy my time. So I persevered.

  I served the men regularly. They came for drinks and smokes almost on a daily basis. As time passed, I caught them coming out of houses nearby, so I soon knew where they lived. Laurel and Hardy had families and mistresses and Goofy lived alone. They enjoyed the high life, though, driving flash cars and wearing sharp outfits.

  Ronnie always told me that thoughts of vengeance would stop me healing. He was right – I sickened further as I listened to their bragging. They took what they wanted. People avoided their stares and feared their tread. Seemingly, nobody challenged them.

  I asked the owner of the shop why the police didn’t arrest them as they were clearly criminals. He said that terrified families said nothing, and the men always had concrete alibis. The suspicion was that they had friends in high places and were therefore untouchable. They even had a tab at the newsagent’s; one which they never settled. My minuscule remaining faith in the police and justice diminished further.

  I festered with the need for payback and planned my revenge. There would be three men and three murders. I had the tools and the nous to do it, but that wouldn’t be enough. I needed them to feel hunted. They would die frozen and alone. They should suffer the terror my mother, my sister and I experienced. They must know it was me.

  They ended my family’s lives. I would do the same to theirs. I had no doubt of my father’s guilt and probably my mother’s too, but Special was special, and I was innocent. Neither of us deserved to die. I needed to walk free after I had balanced the scales, so I was still alive to remember our family and tend to their final resting place. And then when the time came, I wished to be buried with them.

  When decision time arrived, I woke from a bloody nightmare full of inspiration. I wrote each of them a note, which I hand-delivered in the dead of night. It said:

  Fear the north wind. Because no one will hear you scream.

  And I waited for it to snow.

  Part II

  Winter

  Present day

  4

  DI Barton

  Detective Inspector John Barton watched the weather forecast and smiled at the upcoming snowstorm. Crime levels plummeted when it froze, and his job would get easier. People stayed in, so the poor little hoodlums had fewer victims to rob in the street, and there were fewer empty houses to burgle. Only car thefts rose. He shook his head as he thought of the countless individuals who were shocked when they left their engine running to defrost the windscreen only to return to find it had been irresistible to an opportunistic thief.

  However, all that would be none of his concern because he had two days off. He wasn’t even on call. Tonight, he could turn off the phone. His plans consisted of a cold beer in his hand, a pizza in the oven, and a decent film on the box. He leaned back in the cosy armchair as the programme returned to the breakfast news headlines. Another mass shooting shocked America. The gun situation over there fascinated him. How different would his job be if 40 per cent of UK homes contained a loaded weapon? Would he still have the balls to do it?

  His son wandered into the lounge sporting a rueful expression. Even though Barton’s wife had said to stop calling him Baby Luke, Barton had struggled to get out of the habit. He occasionally whispered the words when he checked on him last thing at night. He knew, seeing as Luke turned four years old a while back and had just started in reception class, that it should be plain old Luke.

  ‘School for you, my boy. Time to get dressed.’

  ‘I didn’t make it to the toilet quick enough, Daddy.’

  News like that always registered slowly and Barton couldn’t resist trying his luck.

  ‘Best you go and tell your mother.’

  ‘She said to say it was your turn.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Barton gritted his teeth and pressed pause on the remote so he wouldn’t miss anything. He helped with these tasks when home. That seemed fair, as he put in long hours, and his wife did all the dirty jobs while he worked. Nevertheless, mucking out was firmly at the bottom of his list of favourite parenting jobs Without a word, he picked Luke up under the arms and carried him to the bathroom and, with trepidation, hooked the top of his pyjama bottoms back.

  ‘There’s nothing there.’

  ‘Oh, it must have been a trump.’

  It was going to be a good day, Barton decided. ‘Now you’re in the right place, let’s see if we can coax something out.’

  ‘What does coax mean?’

  ‘Encourage.’

  ‘What does encourage mean?’

  ‘It means don’t get off the toilet until you’ve done a poo.’

  He kissed his son on the head and returned to the lounge. His nine year old daughter, Layla, had developed an unusual fascination with old quiz shows. His paused Sky news programme had turned into blaring Supermarket Sweep. Layla had inherited 99 per cent Holly, 1 per cent Barton. The same azure eyes as his wife drilled into him. They challenged him as he walked into the room and frowned at the TV.

  ‘Are you responsible for that stench?’ she asked.

  ‘No, Luke’s guilty of that.’

  ‘Nice. What kind of man blames a little boy?’

  Where did this attitude come from? The teenage years loomed ahead like driving towards a towering tornado. Barton decided a psychological argument over who owned the TV before 9:00 a.m. could only be a bad idea. He never won, so settled for something he could control.

  ‘Get ready soon. We’re walking today.’

  Layla squinted at him as he left the room but already understood the game they played. She blamed him for not letting her walk to school on her own. Perhaps he was over-cautious, but he had investigated a kid snatched on the school run. Besides, they had to accompany Luke there, anyway.

  ‘I’d like porridge for breakfast, please, Daddy.’

  He trudged to the kitchen. She got her own cereal, but if she wanted porridge, he had to make it. He could say ‘have cornflakes or nothing’, but porridge was healthier. Layla knew this and won again. His wife, Holly, gave him an appraising look.

  ‘Are the kids dressed and ready, John?’

  Barton laughed despite himself. She had guessed they wouldn’t be but liked to pull his leg. He’d told her to relax this morning. Strange how he managed complicated investigations for Peterborough’s Major Crimes unit, with multiple lines of enquiries and clashing personalities, yet parenting remained a constant struggle. Three kids shouldn’t be hard to handle, but his pounding head indicated otherwise.

  ‘Layla wants porridge.’

  ‘In the cupboard, red box, instructions on the side.’

  He placed his best puppy face on. ‘Where’s Team Barton today?’

  ‘I’ll have a cup of tea when you’re ready too. Can you do pancakes?’ She failed to stop herself laughing and stood to help. ‘I’ll wake Teen Wolf.’ That was their nickname for her fourteen year old son from a previous relationship. Barton regarded him as his own flesh and blood. His actual name was Lawrence. Holly had insisted the c
hildren’s names all began with an L so they felt a sense of kinship. She took his surname when they got married, even though she reckoned Holly Barton sounded like the name of a female lorry driver who delivered Christmas trees.

  While he filled the kettle, he pondered on whether waking Lawrence was a worse job than wiping Luke’s bottom. His wife returned as his phone rang from where he’d left it on the table.

  ‘Can you get that, Holly?’

  ‘I’m the cleaner, nanny, nurse, agony aunt and, at times, sex goddess. One thing I am not is your secretary. Answer it yourself.’

  An early morning call on his mobile wouldn’t be positive. She understood that. His day off already looked precarious. Detective Sergeant Zander’s name showed on the screen when Barton picked up the phone.

  ‘Hey, Zander, good to hear from you.’

  ‘John, I don’t think I can take any more.’

  5

  DI Barton

  Barton slowly put the phone down.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ asked Holly.

  ‘It’s Zander. He sounds suicidal.’

  ‘Oh my God, talk to him.’

  ‘He’s hung up.’ He cringed at his poor choice of words.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He hung the phone up. The line went dead.’

  She shook her head at him. ‘John. He must be at home. Drive over there.’

  Barton turned to the lounge. ‘What about the kids?’

  Holly rolled her eyes. ‘I think I’ll be able to cope. Now get out of here, you huge lunk.’

  He raced to the kitchen, snatched his car keys from the hook, and stepped out of the front door. A sagging tyre stared back at him from underneath his blue Land Rover. Job number three that day involved another garage visit. A big man needed a large vehicle, but lately he always seemed to be getting flats, however when he had taken the car to be repaired, they couldn’t find any damage. He suspected a local comedian, probably a kid, deflating them as a joke.