The Snow Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  This wasn’t planned. I intended to go to the church up the road. This morning should have been the end. I could have lain down next to my family in the far corner of the frozen churchyard and joined them.

  The Colonel remembered seeing me over the years but he just knew me as someone who lived near his house. Nothing more. So, I talked him through a story about an innocent young girl and her family from long ago. Three assassins were ordered to kill them all, but one of the children survived. With ice in her heart, she avenged those deaths by taking the murderers’ lives. She became the Snow Killer. The final man to die, in his desperate attempt to stay alive, gave up a name. His commands, he implored, came from the Colonel.

  Even back then I understood that everybody lies, and I’d had enough. The men who killed my family were dead themselves. It was the moment to move on, but not, as it turned out, move house. Fate has a sick sense of humour. I spent the next fifty years waving and passing the time of day with the man who instructed those men to wipe out all who were dear to me.

  I wanted the truth but the Colonel refused to provide it. Threatening him with the gun didn’t work. Death rarely strikes terror into the old. It holds no fears for me. I placed my pistol on the floor and drew out the Stanley knife. Tape over his mouth silenced the screams. It’s a gruesome task, cutting someone for answers. We played that game for an hour.

  I realised he’d die happy if it meant his secrets departed with him. He was as ready for the end as I was. This world frightened and confused him in the same way as it did me. I found a first-aid kit in the bathroom. I removed some of the tape and patched him up, but most of the blood had dried anyway. He fell asleep, and I allowed him to dream. Shadows lengthened and I, too, dropped off. He was staring at me when I woke. Before I was fully roused, he spoke.

  ‘Do you believe in God? I refused to have faith. But now, I wonder. I’d like there to be something more. I’d love to see my son and daughter again.’

  I rubbed my eyes. ‘I think you’d struggle when it came to the final judgement.’

  ‘Is it too late to say sorry?’

  ‘Do you regret your choices? Tell me the truth.’

  ‘I suppose you deserve answers. I might as well give you them. Judging by the way you walk and those tremors, your race is nearly run.’

  I rose from my seat and made a pot of tea. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the facts now they were forthcoming. I placed his cup next to the recliner and cut the ties that restrained his hands.

  He spoke slowly and with thought. ‘I never knew your family. I ran the Peterborough drug business for a mate in London who brought the stuff into the country. I worked hard but fair. There were punishments, for sure, but no one died. He dealt with bigger volumes and his penalties were on a grander scale. Your father worked for him in a variety of roles. Deliveryman, dealer, but mostly as a hitman. London is a different place. He had become a hopeless, reckless addict. My friend wasn’t his boss, heroin was. And that was his downfall.

  ‘He ripped my pal off twice, once for drugs and finally for money. Most people don’t get a second chance, no one a third. Your father didn’t deserve one. I got ordered to kill him. They said to spare nobody. You’d be surprised at how many children seek revenge when they grow up.’ He coughed or laughed. It was hard to tell. ‘Look at you. This is what he tried to prevent. Luckily for him, he’s long gone.’

  I didn’t feel anger. These were facts, not feelings. I would respond in kind.

  ‘My sister had severe disabilities. I’m not sure what you call it nowadays. Additional needs or something. She wasn’t capable of seeking retribution.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. How could I? After the hit was done, we forgot about it. We read you’d survived, but you were a child with brain damage. Years later, when the others began to die, we were involved in a turf war. I never suspected an eighteen year old girl would come back from the dead and take them out in that way. Anyway, my crew won the battle. The fighting stopped, and life continued. I had a wife, children, and finally grandchildren. If I’m honest, I didn’t think about your family again, or the other people I hurt over the years. When my wife died of cancer and my daughter died of an overdose, I started to wonder if Him upstairs had it in for me. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.

  ‘I had a stroke a decade ago. He must have been watching. My son ran the business with my grandson until the police finally caught them. We’d had a good run, and they were only arrested when someone grassed us up. I guessed it was the bloody Chapmans. The judge jailed the whole crew apart from me. They had superficial evidence on my involvement from years back, but I struggled to walk more than fifty metres. I couldn’t cause much trouble in a wheelchair.

  ‘Someone stabbed my son to death in prison, and I’ll be gone by the time they release my grandson. Criminal friends aren’t real friends, and now I’m alone. Justice was served though because you killed Celine and her boyfriend. Do you know I’m Britney’s godfather? We were close once. She used to come and stay when she was young. The last words she said to me were, “I’ll piss on your grave.” I suspect you threatened her, and she dropped me in it. The circle is nearly complete.’

  We drank our tea and listened to the weather against the windows and ominous ticks from painted radiators. I wondered where mercy had gone. I had none. Besides, I doubted his sincerity. ‘You don’t seem sorry to me.’

  He smiled.

  I’d turned the lights off when I entered. We’d spoken in the gloom with the only light reflecting from the swirling snowflakes. I left my seat and cleared a hole in the misty window. Hours ticked by as I considered my existence. I began at the night when Special died. Thoughts of Uncle Ronnie crowded my mind for a while, and then my memory jumped to my later actions. I relived the recent killings and how I got to be standing where I am now. Was there anything in between the deaths? Nothing of substance, it seems. Where did fifty years go? Mine is a life highlighted by death. So much water under the bridge; so much blood in the snow.

  I duck down from the window as headlights from a large car cruising into the cul-de-sac opposite dazzle me. It’s the detective. Standing next to the curtain, I watch him climb from the vehicle. He looks my way. Has he seen me? What do I do now? He disappears into his house but comes out shortly afterwards carrying something. Through the spiralling snowflakes, he fades down the path towards my end of the street.

  I decide the original plan still works. A final question remains. It’s the last piece of the puzzle. Slowly, I turn to the Colonel.

  ‘We’re going for a walk. Don’t worry, it’s not far. Just along the road to the church. You can apologise to my parents in person.’

  ‘I can’t walk that distance.’

  ‘I know you have wheels. Is there a finer place to ask for forgiveness?’

  ‘What if I don’t want to go? What’s the worst you can do?’

  He heaves himself to the edge of his seat and, with a rolling technique, gets to his feet. Despite that, he stands there proud. He’s enjoyed an existence that he denied my sister. My heart freezes, and I see a way.

  ‘Or should I kill you here? Better still, I’ll maim you in such a manner that you live the rest of your life in a nappy. Blind and castrated.’

  As I suspected, he doesn’t want that being his legacy. We put our coats on at the door in silence, as though we are leaving a fine restaurant after a bad meal. Crime does pay, and his electric scooter glints brilliantly when I turn on the light. I support him into it and whisper in his ear.

  ‘I have one last thing for you to tell me on the way.’

  His eyes narrow. The doorway has been modified, and it’s easy getting out of the front door, but the wind screams. An unearthly squall speeds the scooter along the icy ramp and onto the drive. It slips and slides down the paving, through the twirling mist that fills the air, and out of sight.

  I leave the door swinging and tread through the grass for a better grip. I find the Colonel at the edge of the road. His hat has gone
and manic eyes stare at me. He laughs, pushes the lever forward and trundles across the street onto the far pavement. I can’t see anyone else around, but that isn’t surprising. I can hardly see anything. The wind pauses, and I shuffle after him, nearly losing my balance on the ice.

  Even in my boots, progress is slow, and I realise he’s trying to escape. His urge to survive surprises me but at least he’s heading in the right direction. A thumping gust shoves me, and I bounce off a wall. My shoulder throbs, but the structure stopped me from being blown away. Dim yellow street lights fail to pierce the white air around me.

  I’m blinded by a blast of icy particles and bump into his chair. He’s stuck in a thick bank of snow. I tug him free and hold onto the handles at the back. It pulls us to a deadly conclusion. His ride must be state-of-the-art because it copes with my weight and the snow covered gravel of the path to the churchyard with ease. The front gate is unlocked. Someone must be inside the church as the lights are on. Floodlights beam up the side of the stone walls. The soft glow of those and the fog make the church look as if it’s floating on a cloud.

  I pull the lead out of the battery at the rear of the chair.

  ‘Not quite ready to die, then, Colonel? Now, answer my final question.’

  68

  DI Barton

  DCI Naeem sent them all home at 21:00 after the paperwork was done and the last few leads chased. There were no further developments. Barton cruised into the village and parked on his drive. The weather had taken a severe turn for the worse. The wind bucked and screamed as though in pain. It whipped the dry snow around, making him feel as if he were struggling on the peak of a mountain. It wasn’t even snowing, but the visibility had switched from fifty metres to ten in seconds. The thought of hot soup was calling him. He had an early start again in the morning.

  The Colonel’s house was uncharacteristically as dark and empty as Ronnie Smith’s residence had been. Barton considered checking on him but couldn’t really be arsed. He thought he saw someone move near the window. The man would no doubt moan about all the disruption during the day when he collared him next.

  He remembered Al and Jules parked up at the bottom of the cul-de-sac. They’d had a long day, too. With that in mind, he nipped into his house and took a pack of ready-to-eat small sausage rolls out of the fridge. After a minute in the microwave, they were soggy, but the lads wouldn’t care. Four each should be enough. Holly came into the kitchen as he popped the spare two in his mouth. She shook her head and he tried to talk, burning his tongue in the process.

  He grumbled to himself along the path. She constantly told him to eat healthily, so why put things like that in the fridge? If he was a heroin addict, she wouldn’t leave syringes full of the good stuff in the salad box and tell him to use his willpower.

  Halfway down the street, the wind picked up again. The snow swirled in all directions. Visibility dropped to near zero, and he assumed that this was what they meant by a whiteout. The surrounding houses disappeared, and if he hadn’t known the street like the back of his hand, he might have got lost. The police X5 remained in the carport next to retired Inspector Griffin’s property. He could make out two fuzzy round lights. As he approached, the only thing that stood out was Griffin’s red door.

  He had a thought. Zander probably didn’t know to knock on the back door earlier because Griffin wouldn’t hear the front doorbell. They’d asked the other neighbours if they had any idea where Ronnie Smith might have gone, but no one knew anything about her. Barton did know that she’d spent some time with Griffin. Maybe he could point them in the right direction.

  He walked around the rear of the property and hammered on the door. Griffin answered it in a shirt and badly tied tie combined with a pair of pyjama trousers. The fronts of the former were stained, and the latter had a worrying wet patch at his groin.

  ‘Morning. Burton, isn’t it, from down the road? How can I help you?’

  Barton was unsure whether it would just unsettle the man to correct him. ‘How are things? Are you okay?’

  ‘Fine. Watching the news. I’m going to have a cup of coffee, I think.’

  By all accounts, this individual had wielded considerable power by the end of his career in the force. He’d never been a friendly man: in fact, this was the nicest conversation Barton could remember having with him. But this seemed a poor end to a life. He wouldn’t wish this lonely confusion on anyone.

  ‘I’ll make it. You go and sit down.’

  Barton ushered him into the lounge. His breath froze in the air. He inspected the gas fire and deduced it had been blocked off. The TV show seemed to be a documentary about the sex trade in Thailand. He wasn’t sure if Mr Griffin would enjoy that or not. Instead, he put it on BBC1 and settled Griffin in his chair. Barton flicked the kettle on and located the boiler while he waited. He found it on continuous. The thermostat in the lounge, though, had been turned as low as possible. At three degrees, it clicked. Twenty-two should be fine, he thought.

  The cupboards were surprisingly well stocked. Within a few minutes, Barton had discovered a large jumper on the back of the sofa, placed it over the man’s head, made him a strong cup of coffee, and set a plate with five chocolate digestives and an immense piece of Victoria sponge in front of him.

  ‘Has Mrs Smith from over the road been around?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The lady who lives opposite and helps out?’

  ‘Ah, her. She pops over on Sundays, so maybe today?’ His eyebrows raised, so Barton agreed with him, despite it being Monday.

  ‘Yes. Do you know her very well?’

  Griffin’s face dropped. ‘Sorry, lad, but I can’t remember. I can’t seem to recall much about her. I don’t think she likes me, but I guess she must do if she comes over.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’re aware of any places she visits, or people she meets?’

  ‘What did you say her name was again? She’s lived opposite me for a long time. I remember her telling me to get a red door when I told her I needed a new one. I can’t recall if that was recently or years ago. She said it would look nice in the snow. Pleasant lady. I tell you where I do see her. She goes to the church up the road. I’ve often seen her putting flowers on the graves.’

  ‘Do you know which ones?’

  Griffin rubbed his forehead. ‘That’s silly. I don’t know that either. I suppose it must be where her family are buried.’

  69

  The Snow Killer

  The information that the Colonel has given me is in some ways more dramatic than finding out who he was. It’s been a day of surprises. The Colonel looks pleased to have shocked me. I point the gun at his privates. ‘Out.’ He struggles from the chair.

  A heavy door clangs behind us. The vicar in full robes fills the doorway, bathed in golden light. His bent back sways as his gaze takes in the scene. I’m too far away to see the colour of his eyes, but I remember they are piercing blue. His look falls upon the Colonel and hardens. I can tell he knows, perhaps, everything. Whose confessions does he hear? No one says anything to the police, but everyone likes to ease their guilt. How many secrets will he take with him when he leaves?

  His stare passes to me and softens. His face shows recognition and understanding. He’s heard what I did and who I am. He will have seen me amongst the tombstones. I wonder why he didn’t tell? Was he scared of me, or maybe he accepted my balancing of the scales? I suspect he protects his own weaknesses. Those of fresh hare and stolen TV sets.

  The Colonel cries out, ‘Help!’

  After making the sign of the cross, the vicar retreats into the radiance behind him. The door bangs shut with finality. Uncle Ronnie said he’d saved his life once. Maybe he’s returning the favour.

  I poke the Colonel in the back with the end of the pistol and direct him towards my family’s plot. The wind buffets us as we stare at the three headstones. There’s a space next to the smaller one for another.

  A flurry sprays our bodies with ice from the surroun
ding bushes. The Colonel drops to his knees. His face is white and he looks as if he could be dead already. He isn’t, because his head turns in the direction of the sirens at the same time as mine.

  70

  DI Barton

  Barton left Griffin’s house and stood in the beam of the police vehicle next door. Jules popped his head out.

  ‘Jesus, I spotted a dark figure and thought it was her. You’re lucky. We discussed filling you with lead and asking questions later, but neither of us wanted to open the window.’

  ‘Very amusing. Let me in, it’s freezing out here.’

  Barton climbed into the warmth of the BMW X5. It felt like stepping out of an air-conditioned aircraft into the heat when you arrive in a tropical country. He handed them the sausage rolls. Al held the bag up.

  ‘Couldn’t you have pinged them in the microwave?’ he asked.

  Barton didn’t bother to explain. ‘I take it she hasn’t shown?’

  ‘We have no idea,’ said Al, stuffing a roll in his mouth. ‘Ah, nice. Warm too.’

  While Al munched with a smile, Jules explained. ‘We can’t really see anything from here. It clears every now and again when the wind dips and it stops snowing, but she could easily have sneaked home without us noticing. The commanders told us to keep an eye out but not engage. They don’t expect her to return, and they don’t think Joe Public is at risk. What are you doing here, anyway?’

  ‘The plan was to bring you those healthy snacks. Then I had an idea to ask the guy who lives opposite if he had any idea as to where she might have gone. Maybe he knew about other friends, that sort of thing.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Jules.

  ‘He didn’t know the day of the week, so we have to take his info with a pinch of salt, but he said she goes to the local churchyard. A line of thinking is that now she’s got to Britney, she’ll commit suicide. If her family are buried there, she might have visited for one final goodbye, or even to die next to their graves.’