The Snow Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  Cursing, he returned to the house.

  ‘Did you forget your puncture? You’ll have to take mine.’ Holly beamed at him. ‘Let me get my camera out of the boot. Luke brought the reception class teddy home yesterday and I need to take some photos for his homework.’

  He plucked the keys from her hand with a frown and hustled outside. His wife owned a Fiat 500. She loved it, but he did not.

  Barton’s dad drew inspiration from the song ‘Big Bad John’ when his only boy arrived in the world forty-five years ago weighing in at ten pounds, and named him after it. Barton hadn’t quite reached six foot six, but his dad used to sing the chorus to him when they met. Barton missed that now. It had been more than a decade. He missed having a thirty-two-inch waist too, but the years flew by. Beefy Tired John might be more appropriate.

  He yanked the frost cover off Holly’s car and rang Shawn Zander one more time, to no avail. He left a message saying he was on his way then put the front seat back as far as it would go. A flash from Holly’s camera lit up the gloomy morning. Winding down the window, he couldn’t help laughing. ‘Happy now?’

  Holly gave him a kiss. ‘You’re so cute. It’s like having my own clown car. Even your nose looks a little red. Now off you go. I know he’s threatened to commit suicide before, but this time he might mean it. No fast food either, okay?’

  He waved her off and almost reversed her car into an old man walking across the drive. When the man had shuffled past, he moved again and had to slam the brakes on for a second time as another pensioner walked behind his vehicle. Neither acknowledged their close escape.

  When the Bartons had first moved into Black Ermine Street, they had brought the average age in the road down by about thirty years. It was actually a cul-de-sac of twenty-five properties. Barton lived at the top in one of the few houses. He had a nice view of the green opposite and could see who came in and out of the street as they had to pass his house. A large hedge kept prying eyes out of his front rooms.

  The rest had been bungalows on nice plots, full of retired folk. It was a peaceful place, but gradually death took its toll and fresh faces arrived. The area’s popularity soared and so did the prices. Rich people moved in and demolished the bungalows to build huge mansions on the plots, or they extended upwards and outwards.

  The two people that he’d almost flattened were a few of the remaining oldies who lived down at the bottom. Many of them still had the old metal windows and weird-coloured doors. They were quiet people, and he didn’t even know their names, but he liked that. As soon as anyone found out you worked for the police, they would knock on your door for anything from rowdy trick-or-treaters to missing pets.

  Everyone left him alone apart from the ancient git who lived on the other side of the green. His house was slightly raised and pointed straight at Barton’s front door. From there, he monitored Barton’s comings and goings and annoyed him almost daily. He seemed to think that Barton was his private security guard. Luckily, he wasn’t about this morning and Barton edged the tiny car out of the end of the road before waving to Holly, who gave him a thumbs-up at the window.

  DS Zander lived in Orton Waterville, the next village along and only a few minutes by car. He was pushing forty years old and had been looking for a more specialised role so he could spend more time with his family, when the unthinkable happened. One night, he popped in to look at his boy sleeping, something he often did. He found a dead body. The neighbour’s ancient boiler had leaked carbon monoxide through the wall. The poor lad had died quietly in his sleep.

  How do you cope with that? Carbon monoxide victims can have a red hue to their faces on death. Zander performed CPR for ten minutes before the ambulance turned up. Later, the post-mortem showed the boy had passed over two hours beforehand. Barton refused to ponder that fact. He suspected Zander thought about it all the time.

  His work colleagues had sorely missed his presence around the office. He was an athletic black guy with a smile that disarmed everyone; people talked to him without hesitation. No one used his first name. He was Zander to all; friend or foe.

  That grin understandably struggled to break free these days even though it’d been a year since Zander’s son had died. There were signs of late that he might get through it, and he’d returned to work, but Barton hadn’t seen his wife, Diana, since the funeral, where her weeping ripped at everyone’s souls.

  The first few flakes of snow fell as he arrived at Zander’s terraced cottage. It was a peaceful location for a successful couple. He knocked on the door and peeked through the letter box. He heard the TV, which pleased him. In his experience, people generally took their own lives in the quiet. Those serious about committing suicide didn’t inform anyone beforehand either. The phone number still went straight to voicemail.

  As he unlocked the back gate, Barton prepared himself for an unpleasant sight. No sounds came from the garden. The rear door hung open. For a moment, he felt like he did on a drug bust. Realising his purpose, he charged into the front room and found DS Zander sitting on the sofa cuddling a teddy bear.

  6

  DI Barton

  Barton sat next to him and waited. The pair used to enjoy each other’s company and laugh together. They had often joked about being dinosaurs even though Barton himself was only in his mid-forties. They were promoted to sergeant at the same time, and Zander had been genuinely pleased when Barton moved up again to inspector. Guilt sneaked up on Barton when he remembered his visits tailing off as Zander’s absence from work continued. They had all thought he’d never come back. To do so took real inner strength.

  Their eyes met and Barton detected a tired smile, so he pointed his fingers at Zander’s lap.

  ‘Step away from the bear.’

  After a pause, Zander put his fingers under the bear’s chin and replied, ‘Get me a helicopter and a million pounds, or Paddington eats lead. And I want that Kylie Minogue too, dressed like she’s ready to do the can-can.’

  Barton grinned. It was a game they often played, so he hoped his friend and colleague was okay.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Barton asked.

  ‘Yeah. I spotted the previous neighbour entering next door. I thought he was moving back in.’

  ‘Shit. He can’t have been?’

  Barton suspected he would want to kill the person responsible for his child’s death. Zander had only had one child too, which must have made it worse. Sometimes a surviving sibling pulled the family through and let the parents know they had something to live for.

  ‘No, he was grabbing the last of his things. I went out to him and shook his hand.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It wasn’t his fault. He rented the place, which makes it the owner’s responsibility. The landlord provided a safety certificate from eleven months ago, so he’s covered. Carbon monoxide alarms are only compulsory if you’re burning solid fuel, not gas. It’s just a tragic accident. After I spoke to him, the grief hit me again. I have a number to ring to talk to someone, but I couldn’t get through, so I rang you. Then I remembered the memory bear.’

  He half smiled at Barton’s clouding gaze.

  ‘You send some of the dead person’s clothes off to this company, and they make a bear of their clothes.’

  Barton’s mouth fell open.

  ‘That’s what I thought. Morbid! Diana thought of it. I couldn’t stand to be near it at first. I hid from the pain, but it meant I didn’t get better. Holding this bear means I know I can carry on. When I see it, I remember him, and, even though I’m sometimes sad, the gut-wrenching agony that kept me in bed has gone. There is a future, and I will be part of it.’

  ‘Kind of makes sense,’ said Barton, although the speech sounded a little rehearsed. ‘So, you aren’t going to… you know… why you called me?’

  ‘No. I’m really sorry. My grief comes in waves. Diana moving out a while ago, and the neighbour thing, meant I had a bad few minutes. Don’t tell anyone. I needed someone to listen, and you’re good at that. I g
uessed you’d come over. Being back at work is helping, too. I need it.’

  Poor man, Barton thought. Sadly, he knew most relationships broke up after losing a child and Zander’s marriage had been no different. Nothing Barton could say would solve anything. Experience had taught him that listening and being there were the only things needed.

  ‘Shall we get out of here, grab breakfast?’

  ‘I don’t feel like being around people.’

  ‘McD’s drive-thru? I’m supposed to be on a diet, so it will taste like heaven on earth.’

  ‘Ah, I don’t know.’

  ‘Come on, my treat.’

  Zander relented and stood. He wiped a trickle from his eye and sniffed.

  Barton’s wife, Holly, always said what you really need if you’re upset is a Barton bear hug. It worked on her and the kids, and something told him to use its power right then. He stepped towards Zander and enveloped him in his huge arms. They stayed that way for thirty seconds before Zander pulled away. He nodded and squeezed Barton’s shoulder while avoiding eye contact.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Zander.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone about the bear, will you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Zander cocked his head to one side and added, ‘And definitely don’t mention the hug.’

  7

  The Snow Killer

  The carriage clock ticks along as I stare at the phone. The doctor said he’d call this morning. It’s nearly 9:00 now, so any time soon. I’m not confident of a positive diagnosis, although the pills he gave me are helping. He wanted me to attend the surgery for his verdict, but I said I’d rather not have to take the bus.

  I turn on the TV and catch the back end of the news. It’s all crime nowadays. There are few upbeat stories. The wind whistling through the windows makes me shiver even though it’s warm with the radiators on full blast. The property is glazed, but I had that done twenty years ago. Nothing lasts forever.

  My health is deteriorating now, and I venture out less often. The past is becoming strangely vivid, while the present eludes me. The doctor mentioned that I’m lucky I’ve stayed in such good shape. I kept up the exercise routine that Ronnie taught me, and most days feel as strong as I did back then. That would slow the progression and help maintain my faculties longer. The ringer on the phone startles me, and I take a deep breath.

  I concentrate on the tone of the doctor’s voice to try to detect the news before he gives it. He asks after the tablets and if they’ve been of any benefit. With hope, I confirm they have, and then I identify a soft but audible sigh. Apparently, that confirms his suspicions. If the medication has been helping, then his prognosis was right. Along with all the other factors, it means the worst. I ask a few more questions, thank him and end the call.

  It’s strange to be told what will probably kill you. Actually, not kill me in my case. This thing doesn’t strike the deadly blow but instead wears you away until something else does. My days will be different now. The shadow of advancing illness will blacken each new dawn.

  It’s unlikely that I will become one of those who finds a joy in knowing the end is in sight and can therefore appreciate every single precious second. I have few pleasures nowadays. The dominant emotion I feel is regret. What did I do with my time? Not much. In many respects, I avoided living. I could have raised a family and children. I never built a home with someone I loved.

  Perhaps what’s worse is receiving such terrible news and having no one to tell. Shrugging, I acknowledge that sharing was never my style. Burdens are for carrying. I immediately decide that nature won’t be allowed to take her course. I’ve seen the slow end, and that’s not for me. In a way, there’s also relief. It’s been obvious for a while something wasn’t right.

  I flick on the lounge lights even though it’s daytime. The black nights and silent mornings of winter are upon us. That is a positive thing. It’s my favourite season by far. I casually wonder whether it will be my last. The speed of my decline is unknown. It could be years, the doctor brightly replied when asked. His enthusiasm paled when I asked how long remained until the bad days outnumbered the good.

  Never mind, the medication is helping for now. They can adjust it as necessary, and the doctor said he’d see me in a few weeks unless I found the side effects intolerable. But my generation doesn’t complain, we endure. I survived, didn’t I?

  And there are still things I enjoy. The clock on the wall indicates the approaching arrival of one of them. With a cup of fresh tea and a bar of my favourite chocolate, I settle in front of the TV. This ritual started when I checked the weather to avenge the slaughter of my family. Although I tuned into the radio back then.

  I stare blankly at the local news. Images of torn vehicles on motorway hard shoulders darken my mood once more.

  What am I proud of? Will the world know I was here? Did I enjoy myself? Coach trips were superb for fleeting relationships and idle chatter to go along with some sightseeing. I never dared apply for a passport because of concerns that my name might register somewhere – overly cautious as always.

  I managed to get a new NI number by saying my birth was never registered. They were more forgiving in those days. I remained Ronnie Smith with a different date of birth than before. The only real footprint I’ve left on this world is the assassination of three murderers. I sometimes wonder if the final killing was the last moment I truly felt alive.

  That is a distant memory now but, if I concentrate, I can recall every detail. The aftermath remains clear despite the passing of time. I swore not to repeat those terrible acts, although the reasons have dimmed of late. I think about it more and more.

  Is the ability to kill an inherited trait? Was it a gift from my father? Since the invention of the Internet I’ve read around the subject to an obsessive degree. Serial killers detach themselves from their crimes while ‘normal’ people struggle to cope with the taking of another’s life. Those with no conscience feel no guilt, but I have regret – whether solely for myself rather than my victims though, I’m not sure. I wasn’t a killer before that terrible day, that I do know; I was only a child.

  But committing those crimes is the thing of which I’m most proud. Revenge is a powerful motivator. The anger I channelled to provoke the desire to get even still remains. It hasn’t dimmed, but as I’ve aged I have learned to ignore its demands. We all feel rage and wrath. We occasionally want to murder. It’s a normal human reaction, and virtually everyone dampens those desires because they know it’s wrong. Or at least the fact that a life in jail is the likely outcome, and by the time they have formed a decent plan, they realise it’s not worth it.

  I smile ruefully and think of the idiots I’ve felt like topping over the years. Those calls were sometimes hard to ignore. Alcoholics Anonymous says that if an alcoholic resists drinking for any period without treatment, they are a dry drunk using willpower to stay clean, often white-knuckling and hanging on by their fingertips. Perhaps that’s me and inevitably, at some point, I will lose my grip.

  I watch Sky news now. The presenters are more glamorous than on the other channels. It’s a peek into a glitzy world that I’ve never known. Hopefully, the woman with the carroty hair and fantastic eyes will be on. I grin when I see her come into view, and my mood lifts because it’s patently ridiculous to present in a sunflower-yellow dress.

  It won’t be long before the PC crowd stop that sort of thing. They’ll have to do it in unisex dungarees in the future. It wouldn’t matter though; I’d still watch it.

  I recorded the programme for years. Since they invented pause, rewind and catch-up, that isn’t necessary. Modern technology helps with some things. With a big bite of a Milky Way, my eyes widen as it begins and I see the map of Britain.

  ‘Hello there, it’s turned into a rather chilly morning. Ice has become a problem for commuters and, to our surprise, for those in the east of the country, snow could be an issue through the course of the afternoon.

>   ‘You can see this area of low pressure moving in and expanding. Some places will experience extremely heavy snow. By this evening, there should be a couple of inches. The worst of it will occur tonight when an increasing northerly wind could cause drifts. Cities like Peterborough and Cambridge, which don’t usually get much snow at this time of year, will be hard hit.

  ‘The good news is that milder weather will push in by tomorrow morning and the snow should melt rapidly. We’ll then have a spell with warmer than usual temperatures before another cold front hits us in approximately two weeks’ time.

  ‘If you don’t need to leave the house this evening, I’d stay in. This is dangerous weather, so if you are going out, please take care.’

  My right eye twitches, and I spit the contents of a dry mouth into my teacup. With a trembling hand, I place the drink back on the coffee table and finally breathe.

  A snowstorm is coming. Usually, I feel wary. This time though, energy courses through my veins. Even the fog of my illness is beaten back. Is this a sign? I don’t often venture out in such conditions. Memories or urges may resurface. I shudder at the recollection of the things I’ve done. Normally, I’d have a day of white-knuckling ahead of me, but now is the time to look back. I will venture out in the snow when it arrives.

  The sensation is almost sexual. I haven’t been interested in serious relationships since the nurse all those years ago. That’s another thing they took from me. Only snow claims my affection. Once, I considered moving to Scotland where bad weather is guaranteed. I dismissed that quickly; it would have been a bloodbath. I press rewind with a smile and let my mind wander back to the men I punished half a century ago.