The Snow Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  When I pushed my bin out for the collection this morning, I sensed the change in the weather at once. The air promised imminent snow and, luckily, it’s been a good few days and I feel strong and capable. Christmas was a bleak time. I spent most of it in bed after a fall. Nothing broken, but I became easily tired and struggled to balance when I walked. I don’t know what I would have done without supermarket deliveries.

  The doctor visited on the premise of slightly adjusting my medicine but didn’t fool me. He asked about family and friends. My vague answers didn’t fool him. He said at some point soon it wouldn’t be safe for me to live on my own. I later found brochures for care homes that he’d left on the kitchen table. I hope I have the mental strength not to let it get that far.

  I had begun to think it would never snow again and contemplated finishing the job regardless because the bad days are now outnumbering the good. But I want to be remembered as the Snow Killer. It will be that which strikes terror into the hearts of people. Then my family and I won’t be forgotten.

  It wasn’t unusual how quickly the Chapmans forgot to be careful though. Most people are the same. If danger’s not staring them in the face, they soon return to normal. I was looking right at them, but they chose not to see me. There’s a point in your life where you’ll become invisible to the young. They are interested in power, beauty, fame and money, none of which they think I have. I wonder if that’s always been the way. That will be their ruin.

  Little Chapman has a new lover. I couldn’t tell if it was a boy or girl at first. I must be getting old. When I spotted them pushing a pram, it gave the game away, and I followed them. She lives a few streets from me in a council building where they put single mothers with problems. The pair walk along the lane near my house without the child, laughing and clinging to each other. God knows where the baby is, or who the father is. They must have a curfew at eleven because I occasionally see Little Chapman walking back on her own at that time, although it’s not like her to abide by the rules.

  The snow billowed down this afternoon and I have to act. I’ve wrapped up warm as it’s a bitter night. The clouds have gone now, leaving a clear sky. Brilliant moonlight bathes the streets; it’s not a great night for stealth. I put my white coat on and walk the rear way to the field. Hopefully, I won’t have to wait too long for my target to arrive.

  There is a mean north wind that the houses had protected me from. Now I’m out in the open, it’s brutal when it blows. Icy fingers successfully search for gaps in my clothing. I brought a huge shopping bag with me to hold the hammer and now gusts repeatedly wrench at it. A lone dog walker enters the small wood on my right, no doubt looking for shelter as he hastens back to the housing estate and out of the cruel wind.

  The copse lies in the middle of a large expanse of grass that’s covered in thick snow. I struggle through the drifts at the edge of the trees, slip through a dense bush and find the spot. It’s quiet; even the owls are silent. I’ve been watching on three Thursdays now, and I could set my watch by him. I have an old towel, washed to death, for me to lie on, and I try to get comfortable. All is calm and peaceful, and then an ominous breeze rattles the empty branches above me. It warns of foul play. I shove the damp leaves off the canvas case that I hid earlier and remove Ronnie’s 0.22 rifle. It’s the weapon he used to teach me to shoot pheasants and partridge, deer and rabbits. Americans appropriately use .22 calibre for pest control. It’s also the same gun that I used to kill Laurel.

  The freezing metal pulls heat from my fingers. I tested the rifle a while back to ensure it still worked. I have cleaned it though. Oiling the parts to keep the rust at bay makes me feel young again. There’s nothing quite like the feel of a gun. It’s the ultimate equaliser. Whoever invented them changed the world. It doesn’t matter if my strength fades, I’m sure I can find a few pounds of trigger pressure for the good of the community.

  My watch shows I have less than five minutes to wait. The magazine clicks into place, and I try to relax. My knees ache and my coat arches at my shoulders to expose the lower part of my back but I push personal discomfort to one side. Ten minutes pass and I’m ready to quit. My fingers respond slowly to my brain’s requests. I flex them as I hear approaching whistling.

  The boyfriend of Big Chapman walks five metres from my hidden spot. The clear night means I can see the expanse of white beyond him is empty. I’m confident we’re alone. I can’t handle a brute such as him safely on my own. He needs to be nearly dead before I finish him off. I aim for the right-hand side of the centre of his back and squeeze. The crack echoes through the branches, but it doesn’t sound like the boom from a higher-powered weapon. I quickly reload. He staggers towards the copse on the right as his hand reaches for the wound. I shoot him in the knee on that side. He collapses to his right, facing me. I put a bullet in his chest. That should do it.

  He doesn’t look like a thug close up. He looks only lost and scared. There’s no sneer of defiance as his ruined lung causes him to spray red phlegm into the snow. A chill enters my heart and I start to doubt myself. Our eyes meet, and I want to leave him. Or should I save him? He’s seen me though, and I have a job to do. I return to my bag and pull out the hammer.

  When I go back to him, the sucking breaths have stopped. One of the bullets must have hit something important. That makes what I’m going to do easier, and I crush his skull with two of the firmest blows I can manage, the second of which sends a jolt up my arm that turns it to jelly. The head of the hammer remains stuck in the broken bone. In exhaustion, I drop to my knees. It takes everything I have to get up again.

  I look around, and I’m relieved to find I’m still alone. I frantically kick snow over the body. My right arm shakes uncontrollably, and I struggle to put the gun in the case. It finally slides in, and I place it in the big shopping bag. I’d leave the rifle but I might need it again. I cross the field to the trees behind me and enter the wood. It’s much darker with the towering pines but I know the way. I scuff along a slippery path, breath rasping from my lungs, barely able to lift my feet.

  Orton Longueville church is up ahead. Someone left the rear gate open, so I needn’t climb over the wall or through the hole behind the rhododendron. The lights inside highlight the stained-glass windows, which is unusual at this hour. Music, or perhaps a choir, reaches me. I must be quick. There’s a small tomb from two hundred years ago that time has eroded. A loose stone panel can be pushed inwards. I slide the rifle in and hook my gloved fingers around the stone edge to pull it back into place.

  I cower behind a gravestone near the church exit as I hear the crack of a heavy metal latch being lifted. People assemble in the doorway. The breeze blows their laughter over me, and I’m forced to crouch as they stand chatting in a huddle. The cold numbs my extremities further, but I force myself to stay until the last voice fades into the distance. Would it be so bad to die here now?

  The night darkens as snow clouds gather above me. With gritted teeth, I creep from my spot to the front graveyard exit. The sensation of being watched drags my gaze backwards. A gowned figure steps back into the entrance of the church. Did he see me? I hurry away to the quiet village road and the cul-de-sac. I hope he didn’t see me because more people must die.

  27

  DI Barton

  DCI Naeem had invited Barton out for a farewell meal for the two of them at the Ramblewood Inn near where he lived. It was a short walk for him as it was next to Orton Longueville church. In true Navneet style, she had a 50 per cent off voucher, but they had to spend sixty pounds to use it, so now they were both stuffed to the gills. Every time a space opened up in Barton’s stomach, he took a sip of coffee and filled it back up again. They’d talked about the lack of progress on the case and the dearth of evidence. However, she hadn’t mentioned his failure to get her job, but he knew it was coming.

  ‘John, I haven’t asked you properly how you feel about not getting promoted. I wasn’t involved in the decision, you know, because I’m leaving soon. I heard
you didn’t bother attending the meeting to discuss your future development.’

  ‘I suspected DI Sarah Cox would get the promotion before we even started the process. I wasted my time.’

  ‘Is DI Cox a bad officer?’

  Barton sneered sleepily at the question. He was too full to cope with the shrewd mind opposite him. ‘No, she’s great.’

  ‘Better than you?’

  ‘No way. Even Morse isn’t fit to clean my shoes.’

  ‘That’s probably pushing it, but I would agree you are marginally better than Cox at the detective side of things. But her communication and organisational skills are excellent. Before you say anything, I know that we can always find people to fill out a form properly and not everyone has a nose for this kind of work, but she’s good at that as well.’

  ‘That’s why I didn’t get it, then? I suppose not solving the Terry Sax murder won’t have helped my application.’

  ‘A quick result might have made a difference, but the powers that be know it takes months to solve this sort of thing, and then it’s often a stroke of luck further down the line. John, I’m saying this as a friend, but you’re behaving differently of late. That’s why you didn’t get it.’

  ‘What do you mean? In what way?’

  ‘Have you had a recent bereavement or other bad news?’

  ‘My wife’s mother passed away recently.’

  ‘Were you close?’

  ‘Not at all. I overheard her calling me a fat yob when Holly and I first started dating. And that was the pinnacle of our relationship. She and Holly weren’t that chummy either, but it still hit us hard as she was only in her early sixties.’

  ‘Look, I won’t have been the only one to notice, but you’ve been sort of morose lately. It feels like you’re retiring, not me. It reminds me of when a career cop leaves with nothing to go home to.’

  Barton finished his coffee and didn’t deny it. That was exactly how he felt, even though it was irrational. He hadn’t spoken to his wife about it and wondered if she’d noticed too. He suspected she would have. DCI Naeem was a good person for an officer to open their heart to. She had experienced most things.

  She took over. ‘Come on, John. I’ll buy you a whisky. Let’s get it all out.’

  They walked through to the bar from the dining room and found a cosy booth where they wouldn’t be disturbed. Barton waited while she bought the drinks and returned with a grin.

  ‘The barmaid reckons you gave her a speeding ticket fifteen years ago. I watched her like a hawk to make sure she didn’t spit in your drink.’

  ‘Great.’ Barton had a sip of it and grimaced. ‘Can you take it back and tell her to go for it? Might improve it.’

  ‘Heathen. That’s single malt.’

  Barton didn’t comment. It all tasted pretty similar to him. But he still took a big gulp and appreciated the warm glow. ‘I don’t know what it is, Nav. For some reason, I just feel a bit low. I’m not too far off the age my father was when he died, so I have a sense of doom. I am fatter, balder and uglier with each passing second.’

  ‘Do you think not getting the job has made you feel worse?’

  ‘Not really. Feeling like this has kind of crept up on me over years. Things that didn’t bother me before now linger in my mind. Perhaps I can’t handle any more sad experiences.’

  ‘You should be pleased they passed over you for the job, then. Twelve hour days aren’t going to improve your well-being.’

  ‘It isn’t just that. I should be happy. We’ve got no money worries, I love my wife, my kids are healthy, and I have a great team at work. I must be mad.’

  Nav smiled and took his hand across the table. ‘It sounds like mid-life blues to me. There’s a stage all men go through where they are no longer the man. They see younger, fitter, faster, more handsome blokes about. These upstarts have more energy, too. You’re bogged down with ailing parents and demanding children. Your sex-life isn’t what it used to be and your partner has changed as well. It’s what happens. It’s a natural process we all follow, if we’re lucky.’

  ‘The alternative being an early death?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘You have two options. One is to fight it. Go mad, wear a too-tight suit, shag that barmaid, buy a Porsche, and wreck your family. I can definitely see you in a toupee.’ She choked a bit on her drink. ‘I see it nestled on your head like a dead squirrel, actually, perhaps a little askance as you type on your computer.’

  ‘Very amusing. And option two?’

  ‘It’s just a stage. You’ll get used to it. Your wife could be thinking something similar, but women tend to be better at handling it. They know not to throw everything away. In a way, they are lucky as they often have the children around them more.’

  ‘How do a destructive boy, diva daughter and bolshie, disobedient teenager help?’

  ‘At the moment, you’re resisting the natural progression of life, John. You’re focusing on the negatives. Enjoy the boy’s creativity and innocence, ignore the mess. Watch your daughter flower into a beautiful woman, forget the insults. And try to keep Lawrence out of the juvenile prison system.’

  ‘Did you feel like that with your kids?’

  ‘A little, but I’d been a housewife for years. I loved getting out and stuck into a police job. My husband went through it though. He’s still a moaning old git now. Don’t resist it. If you focus on the family and the children, you will live in the present and look to the future. That’s all they’re interested in, and they drag you along. The past has gone, and most of it needs to be forgotten.’

  ‘How are your boys?’

  ‘They’re both still at home, which in some respects is nice, but two lads in their mid-twenties bring new problems. Mo finished university and is training to be a GP. He’s kind, caring, helpful around the house, and remembers our birthdays. He’s never had a girlfriend, though, and doesn’t want introducing to anyone he might like. I’m worried he could be gay.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like him being gay?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite word that right. My husband and I don’t care if he wants to marry a sheep as long as he’s happy, but there are others in our circle who are less tolerant of people’s differences. I want to help if he’s struggling. I hate it that he can’t talk to me.’

  ‘Maybe he hasn’t decided yet. It’s not clear-cut for everyone.’

  ‘Should I ask him?’

  ‘You mean show him a picture of Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston and ask which one’s nicer?’

  ‘Silly. Get me another coffee. You’re finally making some sense.’

  When he sat back down again, she told him to continue.

  ‘You don’t do anything. Create an environment where he feels he can talk to you if he wants. Take him out for a meal, just you and him, if you think your husband’s attitude is worrying him.’

  ‘That’s good advice, John. Now, what do I do about Aryan? He’s the reverse. You wouldn’t believe the number of sobbing girls we’ve had at our door, saying the same thing: why hasn’t he rung me? He said he loved me. It’s disgraceful behaviour. What is Tinder? I keep catching him staring at it on his screen.’

  ‘Ah, that’s easier. Tinder is the modern method of hanging around in pubs and staring at people. Some young men have the itch to sleep with as many women as possible. Good-looking men get to do just that, and nice girls learn a valuable lesson.’

  ‘Ah, so he’ll grow out of it.’

  ‘Eventually the fire in his loins will dampen. He’ll meet someone he really likes and mess it up with his weasel ways, and he’ll begin to grow up. The urge to start a family and have something deeper than a quickie might win the battle.’

  Barton tailed off as he realised those words applied to his own life. It was a stage he’d experienced, and now he was at another. His boss’s eyes softened as she realised her words were sinking in. She appreciated his comments too. He hoped they would stay in touch when she left wo
rk for good.

  ‘Shall I call a taxi for you, Nav?’ Barton asked as the bell for closing time rang.

  ‘No, I’ll walk from here. Come on, we’ll go together.’

  They put their scarves, coats and hats on in relaxed silence. When they stepped out, they both marvelled at the thick falling snow.

  ‘Are you in tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah. Unfortunately, I need to have a word with DS Strange.’

  ‘Really? She’s a great officer. I love her get-on-with-it attitude.’

  ‘She snapped at someone in the intel room yesterday, and DC Rodgers said she shouted at him to pull his fucking finger out over something else.’

  ‘Ginger Rodgers does need to pull his finger out. Did he complain, then?’

  ‘No, he knows that’s the truth more than most, and he wouldn’t grass anyone up either. He told me in confidence, as others have commented on her non-existent fuse of late. He was just concerned for her.’

  ‘Okay, good. Keep me posted if you want any help, and thank you for your advice, John.’

  ‘Ditto, Boss.’

  She pecked him on the cheek and strode off in some very sensible walking boots.

  Barton left in the opposite direction with the snow soaking his socks and trainers in seconds. He passed the vicar locking the gates of the churchyard and he nodded at Barton and turned away. Barton pondered how different people’s lives were. He also realised that Nav had never held his hand or kissed him before. Everything had been kept at a certain distance. But now, she only had a few weeks left, and she was smart enough to understand when it was time to let go and move on. His mood lifted, and he looked forward to getting home.

  28

  The next day

  I’ve caught a chill, and I’ve still got the shakes. It’s an effort to get out of bed, and I don’t manage it until noon. I wanted to take the next victim down today before they found the boyfriend, but there’s no way I can function properly. I haven’t slept, thinking about that boy’s expression as he died. His was a handsome face of innocence more than mayhem. That said, they all look like that when they realise it’s over. Big boys become mummy’s boys. Well, they shouldn’t break the law.