Murder In Midwinter

by Fleur Hitchcock

  I pull the bedspread so that it’s half folded over at the foot and empty the bowl of potpourri out of the window. I chuck some dirty socks (not mine) out on the landing and get all my make-up and creams out and arrange them on the window sill. Finally, I take a purple-and-pink scarf that I bought in Camden Market, and drape it over the bed head, so that the bedside light casts warm shadows on the cold white walls.

  “Yes,” I say to the room, sitting on the bed so that I can look out of the window and keep my feet warm under the bedspread. I lean back against the pillows and stare at the view. I expect there are people who would say it’s fabulous. Even people who’d pay to stay here.

  Not me, though.

  I have another thought and jam everything from the top drawer of the chest into the other three drawers. Although I could unpack my bag, I’ve got a better plan and I fill the top drawer with all the ugly things in the room (of which there are loads) and display the nicer things. The curtains are a horrible flower pattern, so I turn them round and get the cream lining instead.

  I hang my school backpack on the back of the door. It’s a cool Korean bird design. Like a picture.

  Much better.

  Checking my phone I see there’s a faint Wi-Fi signal, but even after searching the house I can’t find the router anywhere to log in, so I give up and search for fairylights instead.

  Downstairs, the phone rings. I watch it vibrating.

  “Do you think I should answer that?” I ask Sergeant Lewis.

  He shakes his head. “Better not. Let it ring for now.”

  “So you don’t think I’m safe here?” I say.

  “No – I wouldn’t say that. You’re perfectly safe,” says the sergeant. “My colleague is out there checking the lanes, no one can get within ten miles. I’m just a bit of garnish so to speak.”

  The garnish goes back to lean against the front door and I listen to the phone until it goes silent.

  * * *

  “Have you got broadband?” I ask when Auntie V and Ollie return.

  “D’you mean, like London-super-fibre-princess-standard broadband? In which case – no.”

  “Ollie!” Auntie V snaps and turns to me, a tight smile on her face. “Yes – we do, the password’s on the back of the router thingy, which is in my bedroom, under the bed. Ollie must know it by heart.” She glances across at him, but Ollie grins, shaking his head.

  “Soreee,” he says. “Simply can’t remember. Anyway, it comes from Feeble dot com – and doesn’t work properly.”

  “He’s right, it is a bit hit-and-miss – can take ages to load. The telephone exchange is about 15 miles away. But it’s there if you want to try it.”

  “It’ll never support three people using it at once,” mutters Ollie. “If she uses it, then I won’t be able to Skype Gethin!”

  “Oh dear,” I say. Not meaning it at all.

  I go up to do battle with the dust bunnies under Auntie V’s bed, where I find a tiny router, with a tiny code.

  Sweetocean121

  Of course he knows it by heart. He just wanted me to get covered in dust.

  The phone rings again.

  I hear Auntie V pick it up. I listen, hoping for Mum.

  “Hello?” she says. “Valley Trekking Centre.”

  There’s a pause, then: “Hello,” says Auntie V. “Anyone there?”

  A spoon clangs on a bowl.

  “That’s odd,” she says in the end. “Nothing.”

  * * *

  I try the Wi-Fi from my bedroom.

  I try Google.

  It can’t load and I get a picture of a dinosaur.

  After at least ten minutes it finally loads my e-mails and I write one to Zahra. Queuing it says.

  For ages.

  And then it just gives up.

  I suspect that Ollie is using every scrap of Wi-Fi.

  On purpose.

  I think about filling his bed with biscuit crumbs and then think about mobile-phone signals. I wonder if you can get one on the mountain?

  * * *

  “Auntie V, can we go up the mountain – for a walk? – I need some fresh air. Please.”

  “I’ll ask Sergeant Lewis,” she says. “I suppose the sheep could do with hay. I was going to send Ollie, but…”

  Sergeant Lewis and his friend in the four-by-four say we can. They’re ninety-nine per cent sure that no one’s out there. Only ninety-nine per cent, mind.

  “Haven’t you got anything more sensible?” she asks, looking at my low-heeled boots.

  I shake my head.

  Ollie lets out a long and exaggerated sigh before sitting down at the laptop. “Expect she only wears glass slippers.”

  “I do that on Tuesdays,” I say, “not Saturdays.”

  “These’ll do,” says Auntie V, holding down a giggle and handing me a pair of black crusty wellingtons that almost fit.

  It’s the first time I’ve been out of the house since I arrived, and in the fading daylight, I see that it’s actually a U-shaped yard. The farmhouse, the stables and another barn full of hay make up the two long sides, and a walled garden at the bottom is the short bit. There are no windows on the outer side of any of it, so it’s all closed in with only the narrow gateway as an opening.

  “It’s really well protected,” I say to Auntie V. “Like a fortress.”

  “It is – it was built six hundred years ago to withstand marauders and snow. In theory no one can get in without going through the gateway.”

  We load up a wheelbarrow and swing out of the yard and up a track that leads straight towards the mountain.

  End of the day winter sunlight falls yellow on the short grass in front of us, and we stumble up between high walls. Two small railway lines run all the way up the hill embedded in the earth.

  “What are these?” I ask.

  “They’re for the trucks,” says Auntie V, with no more explanation.

  “Oh,” I say, kicking at the rusty track half in half out of the ground.

  All I can hear are birds. No helicopters, no cars. The silence is almost too big for me and I can’t help feeling as though I’m being watched. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.

  A huge bird circles overhead. Maybe it’s the watcher.

  We walk on up the track, the dogs racing around our legs, breaking up the awkward silence.

  One of the dogs wanders back and lopes alongside me. It’s almost friendly.

  “She likes you,” says Auntie V.

  “Does she?” I ask. “What’s her name?”

  “Megan, she’s the fastest of the three.” She ruffles the brown hair around the dog’s neck. “Aren’t you? So what’s your sister like?” she asks, opening a field gate.

  “She’s all ice skating and nail varnish,” I say. “We’re quite different but we get on.”

  “It must have been awful when she was kidnapped,” says Auntie V.

  “It was,” I say.

  “And what about you – what are you like – what do you like to do?”

  “Seeing my friends, and fixing things.”

  “Like what?” asks Auntie V.

  “Oh, mechanical things, things with engines,” I say.

  Auntie V laughs. “Really?”

  “Well Granddad does, so I do it with him – I like making old things come back to life.”

  “Of course – I’d forgotten he did that – Ollie loves fixing things too. He’s got this ancient bulldozer – it’s tiny – not like one of those huge things you get on the motorways – it’s actually got a trailer too. He loves fiddling about with it.”

  We push on up the hill. It’s starting to get dark. “He’s spent all year fixing it. All summer. He’s been very determined about it. But then, Ollie’s very determined about everything. Stubborn.”

  “Where is it – I haven’t seen it at the farm?”

  “Oh, it’s up the mountain in the mine – between you and me, I don’t think it’s working properly, I don’t like to ask,” she laughs. “He can be
difficult.”

  “Certainly can,” I say under my breath.

  “His father’s a bit of a disappointment to him and he gets a little lonely stuck up here.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying to feel sympathetic, and failing. “So you don’t know what’s wrong with it?”

  “It won’t start, although I think he’s fixed everything that needs fixing and he’s spent hours on the Internet trying to work out why it won’t work.”

  In my pocket, my phone buzzes and buzzes.

  “You’ve got a signal!” says Auntie V, reaching into her pocket.

  We both pause and read our mobiles, their yellow light now seeming quite bright in the winter twilight.

  How are you? Missing you! From Zahra.

  Missing you too, but am OK, I say. Any news? And Pls can you ask Granddad how to start an old bulldozer? Everything fixed. Won’t start. E-mail me too.

  What?

  Just ask him XXX.

  I see if I can get Google to load, but my screen freezes and I give up.

  When we reach them I see that the sheep are horned balls of brown with extra grubby bits around their bums. They bleat together as we approach and cluster around the gate nuzzling at our armfuls of hay. They don’t seem worried by the dogs.

  “They’re Soays – lovely animals, and pretty rare. They’re very tough though. Mountain sheep.”

  “Oh,” I say. “They look like goats to me.”

  “They do, don’t they – but I can assure you they’re sheep. Now shake the hay out and scatter it along the wall, otherwise only the bullies will get it.”

  The sheep stumble over each other in search of food, grabbing strandy mouthfuls from flattened piles, shoving and pushing and even grabbing hay from each other’s mouths. They’re kind of cute.

  “They’ve nearly eaten it all,” I say. “Don’t they eat the grass?”

  “They do,” says Auntie V, “but there isn’t enough at this time of year, so we give them hay every day. They’re a terrible nuisance, but they’re good to run with horses, and there are so few of them, I feel duty-bound to hang on to the herd – and the lamb’s delicious.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I don’t eat meat.”

  “Oh yes, I’d forgotten. Remind me to make something else for you this evening.”

  My phone buzzes again. I glance down.

  Granddad says bang the fuel pump with a hammer?!?!!

  “Don’t worry, I’m fine with vegetables,” I say, absently thinking about hammers and bulldozers.

  “It’s not a problem, it’ll be fine,” says Auntie V, picking up the last section of hay and flinging it across the field. “I’ll put my mind to it.”

  Chapter 14

  But she doesn’t because supper is four plates with lasagne heaped on them. Meaty lasagne. We sit in almost silence and I pick at my plate. I can eat the cheese and I try to scrape the top layer of pasta from the beef below. It tastes of meat but I swallow it. I’m starving.

  Sergeant Lewis wolfs his down, and rattles on about nothing. He’s probably been unnerved by the silence, especially Ollie’s, but even though he’s got a beautiful Welsh accent, the long string of incoherent valley gossip starts to get pretty boring.

  Auntie V asks polite questions. “So how long ago did your daughter graduate?”

  I pick some carrot pieces out of the goo. This is a very long way from the food they’ll be having at the party. I wonder if I could pass the meat across to the dogs? One of them, Megan I think, is lying in front of the wood burner, one eye on the table. I take a forkful and lower it towards the flagstone floor. She bounds forward and snaffles it straightaway.

  “Now, that’ll be summer 2013 – or was it 14? Let me think…”

  Ollie’s watching me with this really irritating smirk on his face.

  “What you staring at?” I say to him across the table. If I keep the meat on the left of my plate it’s just about possible to disentangle the edible cheese.

  Megan begs at my side.

  “Picky,” says Ollie, raising an eyebrow. “Why don’t you just eat it?”

  “Do you not like it, Maya?” asks Auntie V and then she claps her hand to her mouth and grabs my plate. “God – I’m so sorry, I completely forgot – I’ll do you some noodles, or pasta. So sorry, love.”

  Ollie leans back, and lets out another of those dramatic sighs. “Do you mean she doesn’t eat meat?” he asks no one in particular. “Do you even eat fish?”

  “No I don’t as a matter of fact. I have principles about eating living things.”

  “Seriously?” he says. “So not only do I have to give up my bedroom but we have to eat nuts just because the princess won’t eat coochie-coo baby animals.”

  “Ollie – don’t be so rude,” snaps Auntie V, rushing from the table and slamming a wet pan on the stove so that it hisses and judders. Megan gives up on the meat and slopes back to the fire.

  I wonder whether to mention the bulldozer and Granddad’s fix. But then I decide Ollie’s being so mean I’ll keep it to myself. So we sit in silence for a while before I suddenly find myself saying, “Your bedroom? That’ll be why it smells so bad.”

  “Ha!” says Sergeant Lewis.

  “What?” says Ollie.

  “Boys’ changing rooms. Definitely boys’ changing rooms.” I pinch my nose.

  He opens his mouth to protest and I can see him planning his next move. “Going to smell worse now though because you’ve been in there. It’s going to smell of your stupid fake flowery muck. Stuff out of bottles and sprays, all made up in some poncy laboratory – because you’re worth it.”

  “Better than underpants,” I say, leaning back and staring him out. “Anyway – I’ve rearranged it.” I stick the biggest smile I can across my face. “So it’s nicer in there now.”

  “Really?” says Sergeant Lewis, looking across at Ollie who goes dark and furious.

  “Here you are, Maya, dear,” says Auntie V, slapping down a plate of brown pasta with a tomato and some grated cheese.

  “Thank you,” I say, cheerily, launching into the food and pretending to look really happy about it. Ollie’s black mood creeps across the table. But I can pretend it’s not happening.

  It’s a little like eating gravel, extra chewy and gritty, and I don’t want to think about the stinky cheese too much so I just keep on shovelling it in.

  Sergeant Lewis chuckles his thanks and goes to put the kettle on.

  The phone rings and Auntie V grabs it.

  “Hello?” she says. “Hello?” She shakes the receiver. “I can’t hear you,” she says and after a moment, puts it back down.

  “How many times now?” asks the sergeant.

  “Three,” she says, looking at the phone. “Anyway, I should have remembered. Your dad’s a vegetarian of course. But your mum isn’t – or at least she wasn’t when we were kids.”

  “No – she and Granddad still eat sausages.”

  During our conversation, Ollie has been doing a series of massive yawns, slumping further and further into his seat and patting his mouth with his hand.

  “So you grew up in our house?” I’m going to keep talking, just to annoy him.

  She nods again.

  “Yup,” says Auntie V. “I grew up looking at the underneath of the railway bridge, over the plumbing-supply shop, listening to the bells of Southwark Cathedral with my dad fixing old motorbikes in the kitchen, sticking the crankcases in the oven and smoking out the road.”

  From the corner of my eye I see Ollie raise his head to stare at his mum, but I don’t turn my head to look at him.

  “He still does that,” I say. “He still loves fixing things and I help.”

  “And what do you do?” says Ollie. “Wipe the oil from pieces of metal with a cotton bud? Make flowery covers for bike helmets?”

  “No,” I say. “I grind the valves and cook the crankcases, actually. I’ve taken apart carburettors and put them back together again. I’ve cleaned the spark plugs, rewired the wiring. Made
a cog. You name it, I’ve done it,” I say, flushing a little. It’s almost completely true.

  “I bet. It used to drive your gran mad, although she was just as bad, taking lawnmowers apart on that balcony, dropping the screws over the edge into the street below. It’s genetic,” she says to Ollie.

  “What was that?” Sergeant Lewis peers out the kitchen window.

  “What?” Auntie V looks suddenly anxious.

  “Something glinted, up the track. I’ll go out and check,” he says.

  “Is that a good idea?” Auntie V joins him at the window. “Shouldn’t you stay here? Or I could go out with you?”

  “Mum?” says Ollie, looking anxious.

  “Don’t,” I say.

  “I don’t expect it’s anything – just a spot of moonlight on a tin can – I’ll make a phone call,” says Sergeant Lewis. “Just in case.”

  Chapter 15

  “Well, they’re coming anyway,” says the sergeant, putting down the phone. “And we’re to stay indoors.”

  I pick up my tablet and try to feel normal, but my heart’s going poundy and I can sense that we’re all feeling nervous. Clicking on Facebook, I try to get it to load. But the maddening little circle just goes round and round. It’s ten to nine. Everyone else will be at the school party. There’ll be brilliant food from Borough Market. Everyone always does brilliant food, lots of baba ganoush, and hummus, and those little chilli peppers stuffed with cheese. And someone will have brought music, and the school hall will be all lit up with fairy lights and people will be dancing and being really funny, and singing along, and it’ll be great and embarrassing. And they’ll all be wearing party gear. Melita will have her new boots, and Keri will have something really expensive and original, and they’ll mostly be wearing loads of make-up and false eyelashes and… I stare at the grubby rug on the floor. Dog-chewed and dog-walked-on.

  “What’s that you’re looking at?” asks Ollie.

  “Just trying to load Facebook,” I say. “There’s a party tonight.”

  “Oh,” he says. But he doesn’t say anything horrible.