The Snow Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  I open the door to let Dr Patel in and spot the police helicopter in the distance. That will be the third time today that it’s been overhead. I also chanced a walk this morning and noticed an officer down the lane and another one at the shops. Maybe Inspector Barton does have some idea what he’s doing. I bet they are looking for someone in a white coat. They must have linked the case to my previous acts. Their minds will struggle with the concept of an elderly serial killer. I was young and silly once, too, but they’ll understand in the end.

  Dr Patel smiles at me as I let him inside. He squeezes my arm in greeting. He’s often done that since the diagnosis. Maybe he knows I’m on my own, and I appreciate any human contact. It lets me know I’m here, and that others notice me. The whole country will know who I am shortly. My family will be remembered.

  ‘You’ve stopped the medication, then?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, I was slowly going mad with such poor sleep quality,’ I reply.

  ‘That’s a frequent complaint with that drug. Exercise will help considerably. We could try sleeping pills in the short term to see if your body settles down, but I hate prescribing them.’

  ‘That sounds daft. If one tablet causes insomnia, surely it’s a better idea to stop taking it rather than continuing and popping another pill to knock me out.’

  ‘I know, but you’re running out of options because this is the second drug we’ve used. What’s left doesn’t tend to be as helpful. Have you had any other side effects?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Hallucinations or delusions?’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Well, the first is seeing things that aren’t there, whereas delusions are unusual thoughts that aren’t based on reality.’

  ‘Let me make you a quick cup of tea, and I’ll think about it.’

  I’ve boiled the kettle already. I consider Sandy Janes; also known as Brick. Was he innocent, and I imagined he was bad? I read today that Celine Chapman had turned her life around. Could Terry Sax have actually been a quiet man? Am I wrong about them all?

  I stop and stare in the mirror before bringing in his drink. I look old but with sleep my eyes are still young. When did my hair get so grey? I had such white teeth, too. Now I’m conscious of smiling at people.

  When I return to the lounge, the doctor fidgets near the window with his back to me. I realise we are a similar age. He stoops nowadays. I hope he isn’t lonely.

  ‘Sometimes I see shadows.’

  He spins around. What was he thinking? He nods at me. ‘How about impulsive or compulsive behaviour?’

  ‘I don’t know the difference between them either.’

  ‘Impulsive behaviour is when an individual can’t resist the temptation to carry out certain activities. People might do something like going shopping and give no thought to the future or to long-term consequences of the money they spent, just the immediate reward. Compulsive behaviour is when a person has an overwhelming drive to behave in a certain way. Excessive gambling is an example. They may continue to act in that manner even if they no longer get any fun or benefit from it. That behaviour might be out of character.’

  I give him a small grin. ‘I have been a little ruthless with people of late.’

  He returns the smile. ‘That’s probably an age thing. I don’t possess the patience I used to either. Please, stick with the pills and try the sleeping tablets to see if they work.’

  I feel the frown forming before I display it. ‘Nothing will really help, will it? I studied up on the endgame, and it’s bleak. Being so independent, it’s a horror I can barely comprehend.’

  He takes a sip of his tea and smiles. ‘Good cuppa. I admit what you have is progressive and, with no support, you’ll end up in a care home. Live for the moment. Treat yourself to things you might not usually have done.’

  ‘Be more impulsive?’

  He laughs. ‘Exactly. Take your pleasures while you still can.’

  His smile drops. ‘I have noticed a change in your mood that I haven’t seen before. I’m not sure what it is, perhaps anger at the diagnosis. Don’t waste the rest of your days sitting around with dark thoughts. Do something purposeful.’

  He always was a perceptive man. Earlier, something else occurred to me when I checked the medical websites. Who better to ask than a doctor?

  ‘Do you know anything about Traumatic Brain Injuries?’

  ‘I’ve seen many in my career. Why, who’s had one?’

  ‘Me, actually, many years ago. I discovered that the effects might be long lasting.’

  ‘Very much so. Most people recover, but some experience depression, memory loss, balance issues, even problems with judgement and aggression. An interesting piece of research I read said that, when screened, just under half of prisoners reported that at some point in their life they had experienced a serious blow to the head that rendered them very dazed or confused. Obviously, that’s an indicator of a TBI. If you had one yourself, that may have been a factor in you developing your condition. Imagine that. An impact to the skull years ago could cause odd behaviour all this time later. Your untimely degenerative damage to the brain might be a result of that blow.’

  He stays for fifteen minutes. I wonder if that’s how long he usually spends with patients or if he enjoys my company. Not that I listen much after his comments. When I was shot, they really did take my future. That makes me vengeful. Any doubts about my path are removed. I pop a pill in front of him. I don’t suppose it matters if I don’t get any sleep tonight.

  The clock strikes one the moment he leaves. I grab a Milky Way from the fridge and turn the TV on. Grinning, I return to the kitchen and take another bar from the packet. Very naughty. The news is a brief round-up. Peterborough has already lost its spot in the sun as London has just had its thirtieth murder so far this year. Not bad going considering the time of year. Today’s forecaster is a middle-aged woman in a smart suit with a towering pair of heels. She looks lovely.

  ‘Britons can expect a shock to the system tonight as temperatures drop sharply after a spell of unseasonably warm weather. Most of northern Scotland is in for sleet and flurries of snow tonight, while further south the mercury is unlikely to rise above zero all day tomorrow.

  ‘Some areas in the south of England enjoyed temperatures as high as 15 °C, 59 °F over the weekend, but even those parts will feel the cold by tomorrow.

  ‘It will turn a lot chillier this evening as the wind strengthens and turns more northerly – we might see sleet and wet snow in northern areas. But the east of the country will take the brunt of the bad weather, and we could hit minus 5 °C, 23 °F.

  ‘Snow is forecast this afternoon and overnight. It will probably only be a few centimetres, but tomorrow morning is the danger period. Freezing temperatures and more downfalls in the morning will also combine with a strong wind. This could cause drifts and the possibility of whiteout conditions, especially on roads.’

  It’s time. I fall back in my chair and let out a huge breath. The Snow Killer’s story ends tomorrow. I think of the police presence nearby and guess they are close to solving it. They will be at my door soon, and if they catch me, I’ll have to die in prison. Most disagreeable. Going out in style as planned is much more tempting.

  I ring A2B Taxis and book one to take me to the Marriott Hotel. I’ve been there once before. There’s a lovely jacuzzi and steam room. It’s pricey but they can cook my last meal. I can’t stay here. They should have the snow link by now. This area will be crawling with uniforms tomorrow. The detectives may be solving it this second. Perhaps I should have gone earlier because the news warned of the imminent storm.

  I fetch my suitcase from the spare room. I look at my white coat and place it in the bottom. My warmest clothes go in as well. There’s only the need to take one outfit. I’m looking forward to the eat-as-much-as-you-like breakfast. I pick up the envelope addressed to the newspaper with my life history in it. My story will be told. The hotel can post that for me.

>   That just leaves the pistol, which I fetch from its usual location. I slide it in the case between my clothes and click the lock shut. It makes a clunk when I put the case down. I’m glad it’s not loaded. There’s only one round remaining, but that’s enough. I still have the Stanley knife.

  58

  DI Barton

  Barton arrived home and helped usher the children inside. The heating had been left on due to the risk of frozen pipes, and he gasped with the warmth. He didn’t fancy going out again, but at least he only had to call in about eight houses away.

  He regretted not putting a hat and scarf on as he plodded down the already icy path. The street was empty. He cursed when no one answered. He turned to leave when he remembered the woman telling him Griffin couldn’t always hear the doorbell. When he reached the back, he stared at another red door. He knocked twice and a shadow appeared through the glass.

  The old guy peered around the door. He stared blankly at Barton.

  ‘Mr Griffin, it’s me, Inspector John Barton, from the end of the road.’

  ‘Aye, what do you want?’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about a case you worked on years ago. I believe you’d reached Detective Inspector at that point.’

  His shoulders straightened. ‘Come in for a bit.’

  Barton stepped inside and closed the door behind him. ‘I won’t take up too much of your time.’

  ‘I’ll try to help. I struggle with the present, but oddly I can still remember my first ice-cream sundae. To be honest, I feel lost all the time, as though I’m supposed to be somewhere, but I don’t know where that place is. I fall asleep in my chair and wake to an unfamiliar room. Then unknown worries stop me sleeping at night.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Barton was too tired for more platitudes. ‘Now, the murders I’m interested in took place fifty years ago. They were more like three executions. Very brutal.’

  ‘I recall a case a long while ago. I don’t believe they were ever solved.’

  Barton detected a change in the tone of the man’s voice. Griffin had selected his words with caution. Barton knew he would remember the serious crimes he’d investigated until the day he died. ‘There can’t be too many murders you didn’t solve.’

  ‘What is it you want to know, Inspector Barton?’

  Barton considered his words carefully. The meek old fellow from moments ago had vanished. He now spat Barton’s name out. Barton imagined a younger man with real strength of character.

  ‘Why couldn’t you find the killer?’

  ‘They were the perfect murders. No fingerprints or evidence except some common footprints. We had nothing and waited for another victim, but the third one was the last.’

  ‘Did you think of connecting them to the murder of the family over in Lincolnshire a few years beforehand?’

  Griffin’s eyes narrowed. ‘I can’t remember much about that. I understood it was a London thing. We dismissed it. Why are you bringing all this back up?’

  ‘As you know, we’ve had three grisly deaths here in the last six months. An avenue of inquiry links the murders then to the ones now. We’re expecting more information tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Don’t be preposterous. That’s so long ago that everyone must be dead.’

  ‘You’re still alive.’

  ‘Only just.’

  Barton expected anger, yet instead he detected concern. He pressed on. ‘One of the children survived. Could they have been about revenge?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with the present-day murders? How are they related to the past?’

  ‘We haven’t found a link apart from the method of killing. I don’t suppose you have any theories?’

  ‘No, maybe all my memory is bad now. Sorry, I can’t be of any help. Goodnight to you.’

  Griffin walked around him and opened the door. Sharp eyes challenged Barton to leave. Barton stopped on the threshold, turned, and noticed the trembling in the hand that held the door. What did he know? He thought about the lack of evidence in the later murders and the missing files in the family’s slaying. Could Griffin have been linked to organised crime in the past? Was he paid to leave those cases unsolved? Another anomaly crossed Barton’s mind. ‘Why were you called Jen? Didn’t you say your name was Mr Smith earlier, when it’s Griffin?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ The frail man placed his hand on Barton’s chest and shoved him off the doorstep.

  ‘I’m retired. Don’t come back.’

  The door closed quietly, which was more disconcerting than a slam. Barton plodded to his house deep in thought as the first few flakes floated through the air.

  59

  DI Barton

  Barton emerged the next morning with bleary eyes and scowled at the freezing conditions. It had snowed steadily through the earlier part of the night and his boots crunched through the crystals. Bad snow for snowmen, he thought, as it wouldn’t stick together. The wind was getting up as well, which made his eyes water as he removed the sheet from his car. Gusts of snow blew off the neighbour’s roof and covered his clear windscreen.

  The Land Rover’s temperature gauge indicated minus 6 °C. He had hauled himself from his bed twenty minutes early to allow time for the big engine to warm up. Comfortable now, he drove down the street with his lights on even though they weren’t needed to see in the strange twilight conditions. Would the Snow Killer be out in this? Would he kill tonight? Often after Barton went to bed, he woke up with solutions. It was almost as if his brain had arranged the jigsaw pieces during the night. Instead, this morning he had woken to doubt and mistrust of his own judgement.

  When he got to the station and placed his coat on the back of a chair, DC Whitlam asked him to nip to the front desk to sign a card for a woman in Forensics who had resigned. While he was there, a sharply dressed Asian lad in his twenties arrived. Barton listened in as he recognised one of DCI Naeem’s sons.

  ‘Hi, my girlfriend left this behind earlier. I only noticed after she drove off. She said she had a really busy day ahead. Can you pass it on to her?’ He handed over a mobile phone.

  ‘Who’s it for?’ asked the man on the desk.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Strange,’ he replied with obvious pride. ‘Thanks. I didn’t think she would want to be without it.’

  The lad turned around and almost bumped into DCI Naeem.

  ‘Oh, hi, Mum.’

  ‘Aryan. What are you doing here?’

  ‘It’s a long story. I’ll be in touch.’ He kissed his mother on the cheek and left.

  Barton raised an eyebrow at his boss, who said, ‘That was rather cryptic.’

  Barton watched her leave as his brain dragged up the memory of Naeem telling him that Aryan played the field. He decided it might be best to keep out of it. Hopefully it would all work out for Kelly. Although, imagine having DCI Naeem as the mother-in-law.

  The incident room heaved with staff when he arrived. Zander caught his eye over the top of them and held up a coffee cup. Barton sidled through them and smiled. ‘Nice one. How are things?’

  ‘Up and down.’

  Barton shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, mate. I keep meaning to ask you out for a beer, but I never seem to have any free time.’

  ‘No, I’m okay. I’ve been seeing that Slovenian girl and been going up and down.’

  Barton laughed. ‘Good for you.’ He still checked his friend’s face.

  ‘I’m cool, John.’

  Barton gave him a look, but DCI Naeem clapped her hands together at the front of the room and the comment was forgotten.

  ‘Morning, everyone. Thanks for coming in early. The intelligence we have for the current spate of murders may seem a little tenuous. However, if we follow every lead it isn’t going to jeopardise the investigation in any way. Personally, I’m in agreement with the historic angle. The matching weapons used are too similar for there not to be at least some kind of copycat connection.

  ‘It’s 6:15 now, and, as I’m sure you can tell, the conditions are de
teriorating fast. If it is someone who kills in the snow, this may be our last chance to catch them as the weather should break on Wednesday. Then we’re into March and we probably won’t get any more until the end of the year. DI Barton thinks that our killer has a message to send, so he or she may have something else to prove. Prime time has to be dusk onwards. It’s going to be dark not long after 16:00. We will have at least one Armed Response Vehicle in the area at all times, today and tomorrow. They are outside Britney’s house at present. Still no contact, DS Zander?’

  ‘No, her phone’s been turned off, although it rang last night. Whoever answered didn’t talk, and then cut me off when I did. There’s no message-leaving facility.’

  ‘Keep trying, please.’

  ‘Can’t we use her mobile to locate her?’ asked DC Ginger Rodgers.

  ‘Good idea, I’ll try to get permission for that, but, seeing as she is not a suspect, it’s not guaranteed. We can argue her life is at risk, although I suspect she will be on the move anyway. That’s what I’d do. Okay, so eyes peeled for Britney and anyone else looking suspicious in the vicinity. Usually we focus on young males but, in light of what we know, it could be anyone of any age. There’s talk of whiteout conditions later, especially if more snow arrives to match the stronger wind. It will be tempting to keep in the warm, but we must stay observant.’

  ‘Stay frosty, ma’am?’ said Ginger with a smile.

  ‘Exactly. It’s a big area. DS Strange, I want your team to cover south of the shops where Todd Finn lives. It dawned on me that he could be a target as well. DI Barton, chase the newspaper articles via Records as soon as they start work, or go direct to the website if necessary. That angle is yours.’

  ‘DS Zander, your group take Baggswell Lane and the shops. Uniform are patrolling the field and estate behind. DC Rodgers, check in on that guy who was found staring at Brick’s body.’