The Snow Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  I turn the computer on and bring up the bulletins. There’s nothing new at all. I check the local newspaper website, Peterborough Today, and there’s no mention of a body on there either. It’s only then that I notice how bright it is outside for mid-February. I pull the curtains back and stare out onto a featureless garden. Judging by the height of the snow on the bird table, there must be a foot of it. It’s no wonder they haven’t found him yet.

  The weather forecast is on my side. Today will be bitter and icy. There’s no risk of a thaw and probably even more snow tonight. I should still have time.

  Both sides are stiff now, and I decide a bed day is best. I can’t have taken my medicine, so I’d better start with that and then have something to eat. I don’t want to lose my strength. There are more messages to send.

  29

  DI Barton

  Barton reversed his Land Rover off the drive. His wheels spun momentarily in the thick snow before regaining traction as he edged through the village. He wished he’d just walked as Oundle Road was backed up with traffic. An icy blast raced in as he wound down the window to try to demist the car windows, so he quickly wound it back up and put the heater on full blast. When he could see and the car was cosy, he decided to take Nav’s advice and go with the tide. He emptied his mind and let the information on the case flow through it.

  There was still nothing much to go on. Police intel had checked the modus operandi of other violent cases and murders in the county. Worryingly, there had been quite a few matches, many of them recent. Stabbings were by far the most likely cause of death or injury.

  Zander and Strange had worked through them and put most to bed. Maybe that was what was annoying Strange, because the lack of progress irritated him, too. The only similar case with someone found stabbed and with their throat cut was fifty years old. That would make it most unlikely to be a copycat and even harder to imagine a bloke in his seventies running around executing people. They’d had to ask crime Records for the file on that one and, as always, there had been a delay. The file would have been copied onto microfiche in the eighties and Barton wasn’t holding out a great deal of hope on the quality of the information he’d receive.

  Soon, resources would be directed elsewhere, and the chance of solving the murder would drop to negligible. Each case had a budget, and they’d gone through theirs already. With so much human traffic in the area, discarded bottles and cans littered the place. The BMX track masqueraded as a meeting point in the summer months for young lovers with nowhere else to go. A battered sofa was found under the trees and Barton wondered if it was worn out before or after it was dumped. DNA tests burned through the budget, and a lack of momentum wouldn’t generate more money. Elsewhere, it looked as if there was the possibility of a local paedophile ring, so focus naturally moved towards that instead.

  It was nearly 11:00 by the time Barton got to a desk in the incident room. Zander and Strange were the only two others in there, and Barton sensed trouble the moment he stepped inside. His head throbbed from last night’s whiskies, and he wasn’t keen on doing any peace making until he’d had more coffee.

  Zander fidgeted behind a desk; Barton checked his expression. Then he focused on Strange’s face. Tears dripped off her chin. She gazed at the screen in front of her but didn’t seem to be reading anything. Another drop trickled down her cheek. Barton walked towards her. She would hate them seeing her like this.

  ‘You all right, Kelly?’

  Her jaw trembled, but she didn’t speak.

  ‘I’m just about to have a coffee. Do you want one?’

  A howl arose from the back of her throat then the floodgates opened. Barton squinted at Zander, who beckoned at the floor near the coffee machine where there were shards of broken pottery scattered around.

  Barton gave Zander a dirty look and mouthed, ‘Is this your fault?’ at him.

  Then he put his hand on Kelly’s shoulder and said, ‘It’s okay. Nothing can be that bad.’

  She glanced up though moist eyes. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  30

  DI Barton

  Zander dropped the mug he had just picked up, smashing yet more crockery. Barton imitated a goldfish, while Strange scrunched her hair. Zander slipped his coat off a chair and sneaked toward the door.

  Barton frowned. ‘Wait outside, Zander, and don’t let anyone in.’

  Barton pulled his chair over and sat down next to Strange. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ He expected her to say no.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Okay, take a moment while I see if we have some intact crockery in a drawer.’

  She smiled. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right, most of them were beyond filthy and no doubt responsible for half the departments’ sick days. There’s nothing like necessity to force a change.’

  He took his time making them both a drink. He covertly watched her wipe her face and even reapply a bit of make-up before he plonked himself back down.

  ‘They weren’t tears of joy, then, and the broken cups aren’t some sort of Greek celebration thing that I wasn’t aware of?’

  ‘No, quite the opposite. Sorry for dragging my problems into work, but I don’t know what to do. I’m not far off thirty and I want children, but not just yet, and not under these circumstances.’

  ‘Is the father not about?’

  ‘Kind of, but he’s not ready for kids. He’ll run a mile.’

  ‘You haven’t told him?’

  ‘I haven’t been able to see him for three weeks.’

  ‘Ah. I understand.’

  ‘Exactly. To be fair, we only met up when our schedules permitted.’

  ‘You have options. How far along are you?’

  ‘Nine weeks, I think. I only found out a few days ago. My periods are erratic because I have polycystic ovaries. I don’t tend to miss two in a row though. I’ve got a scan tomorrow.’

  Police work had involved Barton in many situations like this. Each different in its own right. There were no correct answers, only correct decisions and only the woman could make the first one.

  ‘In summary, Kelly, you are pregnant, but it’s unlikely the father is going to be pleased, and therefore possibly not interested. You aren’t ready for children yet as you are focused on your career and aren’t in a loving relationship. You thought you wouldn’t be able to have children easily, so, without even considering the moral implications, you are wondering whether this might be your only opportunity.’

  She laughed. ‘Brutally put, but yes.’ She opened her mouth to say something else then stopped. After a big inhale, she told him anyway. ‘I was just so attracted to him, and I’ve never been too worried about getting pregnant because of my condition. It was our fifth date, and I hoped it was going somewhere.’ She rolled her eyes.

  ‘Do you have anyone close you can talk to who can come to the appointment with you tomorrow?’

  Her cheeks flushed red. ‘Not really. My parents spend most of their time abroad for their health. I haven’t made any real friends here yet.’

  Barton returned to his early thoughts about lonely lives. Many of them could be people you wouldn’t expect.

  ‘Would you like me to go with you?’

  She didn’t even pause. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Done.’

  Barton’s ringtone interrupted them. He checked it and frowned.

  ‘Answer it, Guv. We’ll know more tomorrow. Thanks for the chat. I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell anyone.’ She took the opportunity to escape from the room.

  ‘Of course,’ he said to no one. He pressed the green phone button on his mobile. ‘DI Barton.’

  ‘John, it’s Celine Chapman here. Brick’s gone missing.’

  31

  DI Barton

  Barton told Celine to hold the line a moment while he returned the chair to his desk so he could make notes. ‘Okay. When did you last see him?’

  ‘Yesterday. We had lunch together.’

  ‘What’s the pa
nic? It’s not even twenty-four hours. He could be doing anything.’

  ‘He didn’t turn up for work today.’

  ‘So what? He might be sick or busy or late. Why are you concerned? Loads of people haven’t arrived this morning because of the weather.’

  ‘He didn’t ring in sick, and he’s not answering his phone. There’s no one at his house either. I’ve been around and checked. His car’s still there.’

  Barton considered the facts. ‘It’s too early for us to put resources into looking for him. People go off and do things without telling their partners all the time.’

  ‘Brick wouldn’t let me down. People don’t do that to me, John.’

  Barton thought for a few seconds and suspected that was true. Still, even if she had the hump, why involve the police? ‘Why tell me? What are you thinking?’

  This time the silence was on the other end of the phone. Finally, she answered. ‘It feels wrong.’

  ‘Because of what happened to Terry Sax?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You never got back to me with any further information, Celine.’

  ‘I never found any. Look, I don’t expect to see Brick’s face on the evening news asking if anyone’s seen him. I wanted to let you know he’d gone because it’s out of character. We’re both aware what happened the last time someone went missing in the snow.’

  32

  DI Barton

  Barton told Celine he’d look into it and finished the call. It might be nothing, or it might be everything. He spent the rest of the afternoon completing paperwork and put the word out about Brick’s unscripted holiday. After a quick word with Zander about keeping Kelly’s news quiet, he was debating a trip to the vending machine when he received an email from Records.

  They had retrieved the information regarding the murder all those years ago. There were PDF attachments, which he opened. As always with the microfiches, they resembled poor quality photocopies so it wasn’t easy to make out. There was more than he’d thought there would be, so he made a brew, bought a Mars bar, and sat down to read.

  After an hour, he revisited the notes he’d made. Geoffrey Stevens, aged forty-three, murdered outside his home. He suffered four puncture holes in his back from a sharp implement of some kind. The coroner suspected a pointed weapon or sharpened tool because the tissue was not damaged in the way a knife would cause. He described it as a frantic attack.

  He read that those wounds would have caused death had a slit throat not beaten them to it. They found the body in the snow, slumped against his front door. No murder weapon was recovered. There seemed to be few leads and no witness statements. The man had criminal connections and went under the alias Goof. There were no arrests, and the murder remained unsolved.

  Barton stood by the window and considered the similarities. This sounded more uncontrolled than the Terry Sax murder. There wasn’t anything in the case files to connect the two and it seemed highly unlikely they were related to each other. That said, as he stared into the snow, the hairs stood up on the back of his neck.

  33

  DI Barton

  The next day, Celine Chapman rang in the early afternoon to say Brick still hadn’t shown up. Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since he’d last been seen. Barton told her to come in and file a missing person’s report, but she refused to visit the station.

  He was about to say she couldn’t be too concerned, then, when he realised that he wanted to talk to her. A worried person would be less likely to cover any natural reactions if he slipped in a few devious questions. She said she’d be at the Herlington car park at 17:00, and he agreed to meet her there.

  DCI Naeem discussed the fifty year old case with him and said she’d park the information for the moment. Barton reiterated what he knew about Brick and, although the sum of the new information meant little, both of them had a suspicion the case might crack soon. The mood in the office was gloomy, but that was just as likely to be because of the snow. Everyone loved it to start with, but it soon became annoying and inconvenient.

  DS Strange’s appointment for the scan at the maternity unit was at 16:00 and at 15:30, Barton drove her there in his car. Understandably, she’d been quiet all day. The temperature lifted to around zero but the wind had strengthened too. Traffic was light even though the gritters had done their job and cleared away the surface snow. Banks of it crowded the verges, giving the road the feel of a racetrack.

  ‘Thanks for coming with me.’

  ‘I’m pleased you want me there. Don’t you have to wait until twelve weeks for an ultrasound?’

  ‘Normally, yes, but because of my polycystic ovaries they wanted to see exactly how far gone I am and to make sure all is progressing as expected. It’s possible there could already be problems or that I’ve miscarried. I didn’t want to pay another fifteen pounds for a pregnancy test.’

  Barton smiled at her. ‘You can buy little strips for about ten pence and then pee in a pot and put them in. We did it for Baby Luke as it took six months for Holly to fall pregnant. We used loads of them.’

  ‘Baby Luke? Isn’t your son four now?’

  Barton laughed. He could look back at that period fondly now; the excitement for the first few months as they waited for the blue line to appear. After half a year, the novelty wore off with a vengeance and Barton dreaded checking. The very next time, the test was positive. Funny how life happened that way. If you want something too much, it doesn’t happen. He turned the radio on to distract them but the next song it played was the original Beatles version of ‘Yesterday’. Barton daren’t glance at his passenger.

  They arrived and struggled to find a space to park. Even though Peterborough’s new hospital was only a few years old, it was already groaning under the burgeoning city population. When they got out of the car, they shielded their eyes. Snow had turned to stinging, freezing rain and the temperature had dropped dramatically.

  Barton knew about this rain from the accidents when he’d worked traffic. It fell through cold air and became super-cooled. When it hit the frozen road, it spread on contact and formed a perfectly smooth, transparent layer of ice so when the surface looked wet, the whole road could in fact be a sheet of ice. With this wind, it drove horizontally into them. They both hustled into the building and chuckled at each other’s red faces in the queue at the maternity desk.

  The place was busy and a perfect reflection of how multicultural Peterborough had become as it resembled a United Nations conference. There was only one seat spare, into which Barton guided Strange. She sat but shook her head at him. ‘I hope you aren’t going to carry me into the appointment.’

  The clock clicked onto 16:30 by the time the waiting room thinned out, and they still hadn’t been seen. Barton considered showing his warrant card but hated doing that sort of thing unless it was necessary. He knew if he did, the nurses would bump them up the queue as the emergency services tended to look after each other, knowing how busy they were, but Barton only had Celine Chapman to see, and she could wait.

  A free seat came available next to Kelly, and he slid onto it. They’d both been people watching as soon as they arrived. It was hard not to. Here was life at its rawest. They’d seen tears of joy and despair, faces of hope, and ones of sorrow. But all these individuals, from whatever country they came, had waited patiently and courteously. It reminded Barton that the vast majority of the population were nice people, just trying to get by. He also noticed Kelly’s hands gently resting on her stomach.

  At 16:35, they heard Strange’s name. The nurse guided them to a quiet, slightly darkened room with a bed and a monitor in it. Strange perched on the side of the bed while Barton tried to lighten the experience.

  ‘If you don’t want to lie down, do you mind if I do?’

  ‘Congratulations, Mr Barton. You’re having a Big Mac.’

  ‘Let me guess, triplets?’

  ‘I doubt they’d be able to tell – there’d be too many fries in the way.’

  The sonogr
apher grinned as she arrived and saw them laughing. She asked Strange to lie on the bed and undo her shirt. Barton sat on the seat next to her, unsure where to look.

  ‘So, Ms Strange, how far along do you think you are?’

  ‘About nine weeks.’

  ‘Okay, let’s see. The gel will be a little cool, so prepare yourself.’ She pulled a pair of blue gloves on and squirted a large amount of a clear substance below Kelly’s belly button. She tucked a tissue into the top of the trousers and slid a probe around Kelly’s lower stomach while she gazed at the screen. Seconds drew out. Barton stopped breathing and Kelly’s hand came over and hovered near his. He took it and tried to exude confidence as they both peered at the grainy image.

  ‘Right, there’s the baby. If you look closely, there’s the heart beating.’ She pressed a button on the keyboard and a rapid heartbeat echoed around. ‘Very normal – 175 beats per minute. Measuring from head to bottom would make my guess eight weeks and five days. We’ll wake it up a little. There, look, arms moving, and legs, which is great. Congratulations to you both. Let me get you some pictures.’

  The woman and Barton turned to a weeping Strange. Tears pouring down her face. She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Can I ask a question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I have polycystic ovaries. Does that increase my risk of miscarriage?’

  ‘There is evidence that PCOS is a risk factor, but we don’t really know. There are always so many factors involved in a pregnancy. Did you ask your doctor about it when you planned to get pregnant?’