Killing Christmas (2019 Reissue)

by Bill Kitson

  Chapter Two

  Lara stared out of the window, watching the snowflakes’ flickering descent, as if they were reluctant to land. The scene was a uniformity of grey, the snow beginning to shroud the lawns, the flower beds, the trees and even the countryside beyond. She sighed and turned away. Winter wasn’t her favourite time of year. She was bored, needed some excitement, a new thrill. Or was it the old thrill she sought? She walked across the kitchen to the refrigerator and opened the door. Her hand hovered over the wine bottle before she picked up the milk carton alongside it. She was waiting for the kettle to boil when the phone rang, as if to ratify the good sense of her decision.

  ‘Lara, darling, it’s Caroline. Are you free tonight?’

  Lara felt her pulse quickening at the familiar voice, and at the words. The question could only mean one thing. ‘Caroline, I was just thinking about you. Yes, I’m all alone. Why, are you thinking of coming over?’

  ‘If that’s all right? When I’ve finished work, that is.’

  ‘Of course it’s all right; more than all right. You should know better than to have to ask. But what about Richard?’

  ‘Don’t tell me your husband hasn’t told you his movements.’ There was a mocking tone in Caroline’s voice.

  ‘He rarely tells me anything these days. I only know of a supposed Birmingham conference in January. What else is it he should have told me?’

  ‘That he’s away until tomorrow evening. Some sort of field trip.’

  ‘Some sort of field trip? Surely you must know more than that? You’re his boss, after all.’

  ‘Yes, I do, but I can’t say over an open phone line.’

  ‘Bloody secrecy. If he’s not coming back does that mean you’ll be able to stay the night?’

  ‘I can, if you want me to.’

  Lara felt the blood coursing, felt the excitement rising. ‘Of course I do. You know how much I miss you.’

  ‘That’s all right then. I’ll see you in a couple of hours. Oh, and, Lara, one more thing.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ll be bringing something with me, as I promised.’

  ‘I’ll make it worth your while. You know that.’

  ‘I do, Lara, darling. I’ll be with you as quickly as I can.’

  The time dragged. Lara prepared a casserole and put it in the oven. Something simple that would be ready when they were. She set the table before going upstairs for a shower where she spent a long time under the hot jet of water. She took extra care with her make-up before dressing. She was returning downstairs when she heard a car pull up outside and hurried to open the front door. The snow had stopped, the gloom dispelled by the security light. She saw Caroline climb out of the car. Lara’s legs felt shaky with excitement; her pulse raced.

  The two women embraced politely at the door; two old friends greeting one another. As soon as they were inside, and the door was locked against the outside world, they embraced again, but this was a totally different matter. They held each other close, their tongues exploring each other’s mouths in a long, passionate kiss that left them both breathless.

  Eventually they separated and walked slowly through to the kitchen, arms around each other’s waist, fingers entwined and caressing, heads close together.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Lara asked. ‘Do you want to eat now, or later?’

  Caroline walked up behind her and slipped her hands inside Lara’s top. She began to massage her breasts gently as she replied, ‘What do you think?’

  Lara arched her back with pleasure. ‘Later,’ she gasped.

  Caroline withdrew her hands and reached for her bag. ‘Hold your hand out. Now close your eyes.’

  Lara did as instructed. A second later she felt the cold metal against her palm. She smiled, dreamily.

  ‘As I promised,’ Caroline told her.

  ‘You’re a life saver.’

  Caroline watched as Lara used the inhaler. Once, twice, three times. As she set the inhaler down on the worktop Caroline reached out for her and drew her close. They began touching each other intimately as their kisses grew more and more tempestuous.

  They raced upstairs hand in hand and when they reached the bedroom they stopped. Observance of the next part of the ritual of their lovemaking was sacred to them. They undressed one another slowly, each movement, each garment removal accompanied by another intimate caress.

  Later, as they lay, holding one another in drowsy content, Lara asked again, ‘Do you want to eat?’

  Caroline stretched out. ‘Later,’ she said. She rolled over, pushed Lara down on the bed. ‘Later,’ she murmured again, her voice husky with desire, ‘perhaps.’

  ‘Are you ready for off?’

  Becky looked up from the open suitcase. ‘Can’t wait to get rid of me, I bet. Got a woman lined up for as soon as I’ve left? Who is it, your stunning new boss?’

  Nash eyed her suspiciously. ‘What do you know about her?’

  ‘Hah! Think you’re the only detective round here?’

  ‘Anyway, the answer’s no, to both questions.’ Nash moved forward and took the jumper she’d been about to pack from her hand. He heaved the suitcase onto the floor and put his arms round her. ‘Your train’s not due for a couple of hours.’ His eyes strayed to the bed.

  ‘Why do you think I haven’t showered yet?’

  Later, he lay, watching her dress, admiring her figure. Thinking how much he’d miss her. ‘Hey, you never answered my question.’

  She swung round in the act of fastening her skirt. ‘What question?’

  ‘What do you know about Superintendent Edwards?’

  ‘Ruth? She was three years ahead of me at school.’

  ‘Oh Lord,’ Nash groaned. ‘Not another exile from St Trinians.’

  He caught the shoe she hurled at him with ease. ‘You throw like a wicket-keeper,’ he sneered. ‘So, what’s she really like?’

  ‘She’s intelligent, organized, efficient and smart. You should get on well. They say opposites attract.’

  ‘Have you been to Clara’s insulting classes? You’re getting to sound like her. Anything else I should know?’

  Becky thought for a moment. ‘Well, there was a rumour about her at school. But that’s years ago, and I’m not sure if it was anything more than gossip.’

  ‘Tell me. You know how I love a good gossip.’

  ‘The rumour was that Ruth was of the other persuasion.’

  Nash raised his eyebrows. ‘A lesbian? No wonder you’re so relaxed about her.’

  Becky grinned. ‘Come on, get dressed and take me to the station. Then you can go for that pint you’re obviously pining for. When you get there, give my love to Jonas.’

  ‘Much good that’s going to do you. His heart belongs to Clara.’

  ‘Maybe, but the vegetables from his allotment are gorgeous.’

  ‘Ayup, Mr Nash. All alone tonight?’

  ‘Now then, Mr Turner. Yes, I’ve just taken Becky to the station. She said to wish you Merry Christmas.’

  ‘’Ad enough of you then, ’as she? Found out what a bad lad you are?’

  ‘No, she’s off to spend Christmas with her parents.’

  ‘That’s a bit rough for you.’

  Nash smiled ruefully. ‘I’ll probably not get chance to worry about it. I’m working both Christmas and the New Year.’

  ‘No rest for the wicked, so they say. And ah suppose that means no rest for them as has to catch t’ villains.’

  ‘It’s our busiest time of year, right enough. Apart from the usual suspects, there are domestic incidents to sort out. They’re worst at Christmas.’

  ‘In that case, it must be Christmas every day in our house,’ Turner said gloomily. ‘’ave you a lot on?’

  ‘I’ve a lousy job tomorrow morning. I’ve to escort a soldier to identify his wife and children. You remember; that carbon monoxide poisoning case in the paper.’

  ‘Aye, that were a bad do. Poor bloke, he must be beside ’imself. It’ll be hard for you, to
o. They call yours a bobby’s job, but ah couldn’t do the things you’ve to do, or see what you’ve to see at times.’

  ‘No, but fortunately it’s not always like that. And we don’t have the worst of it. You should hear some of the horror stories our traffic officers tell.’

  Nash waited on Netherdale station’s only platform. As the passengers began to alight from the sprinter train, their arms full of shopping and parcels, he spotted the man he was waiting for. He’d have recognized him even without the uniform. The bearing, the haircut, all shouted ‘soldier’ louder than a sergeant major could achieve.

  ‘Sergeant Hirst?’ Something in Nash’s voice must have conveyed the authority of rank, because Hirst lowered his kit bag and stood almost at attention. ‘My name’s Nash. Detective Inspector Nash’ – he held his hand out – ‘Mike Nash. I’m sorry to meet you in such sad circumstances.’ As he spoke, Nash felt like screaming aloud. Such meaningless clichés, but what can you say?

  The soldier looked down at the outstretched hand then transferred his gaze to Nash’s face. Was he being assessed, Nash wondered? They shook hands briefly. ‘My car’s outside,’ Nash told him. ‘Come with me and I’ll give you a lift to the …’ he balked at the word mortuary, ‘… hospital. Then afterwards, I’ll run you back to Helmsdale. If that’s where you want to be.’

  Hirst stared at him again before nodding. ‘Helmsdale’s as good as anywhere, I suppose.’

  Outside the station Nash gestured towards his car. ‘Listen, Sergeant Hirst, I’m not going to shove platitudes at you. You deserve better than that. What’s coming isn’t going to be easy. I want you to prepare yourself for the ordeal. These places are grim, believe me. And there’s nothing I can say that will make it any easier. I understand, because I’ve been there. But if you want anything, want to talk, let me know.’

  The soldier nodded again, although Nash wasn’t sure how much of what he’d said had actually registered.

  The identification process was bad enough for Nash and Professor Ramirez. Nash could only guess how much of an ordeal it must have been for Hirst. The soldier stared at his wife’s face for a long time before transferring his gaze to his two daughters. Nash stood alongside him, could see emotion working in the man’s face in the tautness of the jaw-line. Nash had expected tears, but instead all he could feel was a kind of cold, hard anger. As time dragged, Nash willed himself not to fidget, not to give any sign of his desire to get out of that ghastly place.

  Eventually, Hirst stirred slightly and spoke for the first time since entering the building. ‘Yes. That’s my wife. Those are my daughters. Is there anything for me to sign?’

  Ramirez shook his head. ‘Inspector Nash will deal with it.’

  Hirst looked at the bodies again and drew himself up to attention. Almost as if he was saluting comrades. He stared at their faces, as if to capture the images for his memory; then turned on his heel and marched from the building.

  Ramirez spread his hands in a gesture of mute helplessness.

  Nash nodded. ‘I know. I’ll be in touch.’

  He located Hirst outside, facing the mortuary wall, one hand outstretched, fingers spread across the brickwork. Nash wondered if he’d been sick, or tried to be, or was about to be. ‘Sergeant,’ he said gently. Then, getting no response, ‘Steve, are you all right?’ Bloody stupid question he thought. ‘I mean, do you want to go to Helmsdale now?’

  Hirst looked at him. Or through him, Nash wasn’t sure which. His expression desolate; the anger in his eyes so patent that Nash shivered. Hirst straightened. ‘Yes, let’s get away from this place.’

  The journey was conducted in silence, each of them absorbed in their own thoughts. The mortuary had been bad enough. How would Hirst cope returning to the house where his wife and daughters had died a terrible death?

  From the outside of the house there was little to show for what had happened. The door that had been forced to allow the emergency services to gain access had been replaced. A little piece of maintenance work; far too little and far too late, Nash thought. Even then, he knew they’d used the original locks. Cheeseparing to the very end: typical of a government department and their contractors. ‘I’ll come in with you, if you like.’

  Hirst didn’t reply, merely reached for his bag and climbed out of the car. Nash got out too. Unusually for him, the detective felt unsure what to do next. He followed the soldier as the man walked slowly towards the house. They’d almost reached the door when a voice behind them called, ‘Steve, Steve.’

  They turned. Nash saw a young woman standing on the pavement close to his car. He glanced sideways at Hirst, saw the momentary tension in the soldier’s face relax. ‘Sonya.’ Hirst’s voice was emotionless.

  She walked towards them. Nash was guilty of totally inappropriate thoughts as he admired her looks, her striking figure. He shook himself mentally, ridding himself of the incongruity of his reaction, given the occasion.

  ‘Steve, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.’ She looked at Nash and her tone became sharp. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. The sharpness was what, hostility? Nash wondered.

  ‘This is Inspector Nash,’ Hirst explained, ‘he drove me here from …’ Hirst was unable to use the word, ‘Netherdale,’ he substituted. ‘This is Sonya Williams,’ he told Nash. ‘She’s our neighbour. My neighbour,’ he corrected himself. ‘Her husband was killed in Helmand Province six months ago.’

  ‘Sorry, Inspector Nash.’ She held her hand out. ‘I thought you were military. They’re not flavour of the month round here at the moment.’

  Nash took her hand and held it for a moment. ‘I can understand that,’ he said quietly. ‘Please, call me Mike.’ He released his grip before either of them became embarrassed.

  ‘Can I get you both anything, cup of tea, or coffee? You’ve nothing in the house,’ she told Hirst. ‘I cleaned your fridge out. I thought it better than having the food go off.’

  ‘That was thoughtful of you,’ Nash spoke for Hirst, who seemed lost in his own thoughts. ‘I don’t know about you, Steve, but I could do with a coffee.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Hirst glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘I live across the road’ – Sonya pointed to her house – ‘directly opposite Steve.’

  Nash looked at the room, decked out for Christmas, cards and tinsel everywhere. On the dresser there was a large photo of a man in uniform, the medals on his chest gleaming; her husband, obviously. Next to it was one of Sonya with two young children alongside her and an infant in her arms.

  ‘Admiring my brood?’ Sonya had come in with a tray of coffee and biscuits. She set it down on the table and passed mugs to the two men.

  ‘I was thinking how difficult it must be for you, on your own,’ Nash said.

  Sonya shrugged. ‘As a soldier’s wife, you get used to it.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that, not exactly,’ Nash smiled. ‘I was thinking more about having to make all the decisions without having anyone to bounce ideas off, that sort of thing.’

  She nodded, acknowledging the accuracy of his guess. ‘That’s the hardest part. You look round, or you think of a question to ask; then you remember. Perceptive of you to notice.’

  ‘What did you mean?’ Hirst spoke for the first time since they’d entered the house.

  Nash and Sonya turned in surprise. ‘Sorry?’ Nash asked.

  ‘When you said you understood. Did you mean something, or were you just saying it? It sounded like you meant it.’

  Sonya looked from Hirst to Nash, saw the detective’s face change; saw the mask come over his features. The easygoing, pleasant expression had vanished, replaced by a hard, almost pitiless gaze. ‘I do understand,’ Nash spoke slowly, reluctance obvious. ‘I’ve been there. I know what you’re going through. Not as badly, perhaps, but the feeling’s the same.’

  ‘How can you know what I’m feeling?’

  Nash sighed. He realized there was nothing for it but to explain.

  Later, two mugs of coffee l
ater to be exact, Nash stood up. ‘Look, I’m going to get out of your way now. But what I said earlier goes.’ He passed Hirst a card. ‘If you need me, give me a call. Not just official stuff. If you want somebody to sound off at, to listen, or go for a pint, anything. Don’t hesitate. Pick up the phone.’

  Hirst nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Nash. I might just take you up on that.’ He glanced at Sonya. ‘We’re in the minority, the three of us. People who truly understand, I mean.’

  ‘I’ll see you out, Mike.’ Sonya guided Nash from the room. ‘That was kind of you,’ she told him as they paused by the front door. ‘And it took a lot of courage, telling us your story. I could see that. This girl of yours, Stella, she must have been something special.’

  She opened the door. ‘Take care, Mike. And that offer you made to Steve, the same goes the other way.’ She smiled, entrancingly, Nash thought. ‘I mean, if you need to talk things over at any time. Or just feel in need of company, you know where I am. I rarely go far. I’ve three reasons for that,’ she laughed. ‘And the kettle only takes a couple of minutes to boil. It’s like Steve said. Those of us who’ve been through it, we need to stick together.’

  Nash smiled as they shook hands. ‘Thank you. I might just take you up on that.’

  She watched him walk back to his car. When he’d unlocked the door he turned and waved. She returned the gesture and walked back into the lounge, her expression thoughtful. ‘He’s nice, don’t you think, Steve?’

  Hirst looked up. ‘I suppose so. I mean, yes, he is; very nice. He did more than necessary. Much more than….’

  ‘I know,’ she soothed him. ‘But dwelling on that side of things won’t help.’

  ‘I don’t want help,’ his voice changed, the sadness replaced by a cold, hard anger. ‘I don’t need help and I don’t need sympathy.’

  ‘What do you need?’