The Big Snow

by David Park

  Swift stood up and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He thought of going outside and being sick again but was afraid that Gracey would discover him. He tried to kick himself into gear. Keeping busy – that was the best course. Start with the easy things, like who she was. There was a bill on the fireplace for coal which gave her name as Mrs Alma Simons, but no personal correspondence. He looked around the room, tried to take it in, aware as he did so of his distaste for what he saw. There was a sheen of vulgarity that seemed to coat everything, a cheap sentimentality that had prompted the choice of every object. And everything looked new, from the shiny blue vinyl suite to the sideboard and the radiogram. He went and looked at the record on the turntable – it was ‘Lovesick Blues’ by Frank Ifield – and then at the dozen or so other records that nestled in what looked like a giant toast rack. There was an LP by Alma Cogan: he wondered if she had bought it because of their shared name. He glanced at her and thought that she looked a little like the singer. It suddenly dawned on him that there would be next-of-kin to find and inform, then he hoped to God he wouldn’t get the job as he remembered with a shiver the look in the mother’s eyes after he’d helped pull her son from the river. During those days he was missing she had held on to the hope that a miracle might happen, that if she prayed hard enough, life might give her some reprieve. He had felt the hatred, the anger in her eyes while he stood taking that hope away with his fumbling, clumsy words. She had tried to hold the child in her arms, as if the slow, rocking cradle of her love might coax him back to life.

  He stood at the end of the settee and forced himself to look. From there he could see the dark triangle of her hair and then he moved her dressing gown slightly to cover it. It was all he could give her now, all he could allow her before the others ‘arrived. Two of her nails were broken, probably against the face of her killer. There were no other signs of struggle in the room – it looked as if all the violence had taken place on the settee – and there was nothing to suggest that robbery was the motive. He scouted round the carpet, the hall and the kitchen but there was nothing that revealed any trace of whoever else had been in the house. There were lots of questions he wanted to ask Mrs Graham but they would have to wait – he couldn’t leave the body – so he slumped back into the armchair and waited for Gracey. A song filtered into his head, the tune only half remembered – it was from a long time ago. By Alma Cogan. He thought it was called ‘Sugartime’. He tried to recall the words but they had faded into the past and couldn’t be recalled.

  He had expected that the sound of the car would indicate Gracey’s arrival so when the front door was suddenly knocked he jumped from the seat and stared through the frosted glass before opening it. Gracey almost pushed past him in his hurry to get inside, followed a few steps behind by Burns. A uniformed constable took up position at the door.

  ‘We had to leave the bastard car at the end of the street,’ Burns said. ‘It’s snowing like there’s no tomorrow.’

  Gracey threw a brief glance at the corpse, then collapsed into the armchair Swift had been sitting in. He bent over, taking his hat off to reveal the white hair that looked as if he had brought a fall of snow into the room, and started to remove his rubber boots.

  ‘Me feet are wringin’,’ he said. ‘The snow came over the top of them – it’s bloody waders you need on a day like this.’ He started to shake snow from them and wriggle his toes. Tut the kettle on, Swifty, and brew up – we need some heat in this place.’

  As he went to the kitchen he watched Burns walking round the settee as if weighing up what he saw, the way a golfer might measure up a putt. ‘Well?’ asked Gracey. ‘She’s definitely dead,’ Burns said, ‘no doubt about it. And if you ask me, young Swift’s theory about this being a murder enquiry might just be spot on.’

  ‘Do you hear that, son?’ Gracey shouted into the kitchen, ‘All those books you’ve been reading must be paying off.’

  While he looked for matches to light the gas, Swift heard the two men laugh. He stayed in the kitchen until the tea was made, then carried the cups through. Gracey asked if he had remembered the sugar. The two men slurped the tea and Burns complimented him on its quality. After a few moments Gracey set his tea on the hearth and, looking about him, asked him what he knew. After he listened to the little that he had to offer, he nodded as if satisfied, stood up, still in his socks, and perused the corpse. Burns came and stood at Gracey’s shoulder, the smaller man like a mahout with his elephant. Gracey lifted the covering of her dressing gown from where Swift had placed it and asked Burns what he thought.

  ‘Unless Detective Constable Swift took advantage of the situation to have sex with this unfortunate woman, I’d say the murderer did the business shortly before he killed her,’ Burns said.

  ‘Not a bad-looking lass, either,’ Gracey said. He opened the gown higher up partially revealing the white swell of her breast, then went back to his chair and lifted the cup of tea. ‘While we’re waiting for the doctor and the photographer, go next door, Burnsy, and get all the gen. Comin’s and goin’s etcetera. Get a full statement.’ After Burns had left, Swift mentioned the broken fingernails but Gracey’s only response was to lift up his cup and stare at the writing on its base. Without taking his eyes from it, he said, ‘Listen, Swift, this is a good opportunity for you to learn things but before we start you need to clear out all that gibberish swimming round that head of yours. So do me a favour and don’t be running round here sniffin’ for clues like a bloodhound. Clues are what you get in books, or those bloody stupid films they show on television. Listen while I tell you how we’ll catch the boy that done this. It’s not very complicated, so grab a hold of it. This is called, as I’m sure you know, a crime of passion – there’s no forced entry, apart from maybe the one Burns referred to, there’s nothing stolen – so that narrows the field nicely. All we need to find is the person who felt passionate enough about her to do this. That shouldn’t be too hard, when if what you say is right, her next-door neighbour is God’s accountant, keeping careful mental record of everything that goes on in here. And when we find him we squeeze his balls until he coughs and signs on the dotted line.’

  When he had finished speaking, Gracey started to massage his feet, then stamped them on the carpet in a silent tap dance. ‘I’m liable to get my death of cold out of this,’ he said. ‘The girl’s face is familiar to me. Can’t think where. She looks a bit tarty – maybe there’ll be more than one sniffin’ round her. Wonder if her name’s really Alma? The wife was always fond of her – Alma Cogan. Used to play that song all the time – what was it called? – ‘Dreamboat’, that was it. Hell of a lot better than what they’re churning out now.’

  Swift didn’t reply but stood in the doorway watching Gracey. Sometimes he glanced up and caught his own reflection in the mirror, but when he did he looked away quickly.

  ‘The cat bit your tongue?’ Gracey asked, turning his head to stare at him. ‘Don’t be paying any heed to Burnsy – he doesn’t mean anything, like; just a bit of fun, that’s all. When he first started, he got some stick I can tell you. And if you think you’re hard done to, spare a thought for Johnston out there. By the time we’ve finished he’ll be lookin’ like the abominable snowman. Any more tea left in that pot?’ Swift shook his head, even though he knew there was. ‘Aye and one other thing, soon there’ll be reporters round here like flies round shite. Under no circumstances are you to tell them anything. Got that?’ Swift nodded. ‘And listen, while we’re waitin’ for the photographs and the doctor to tell us she’s dead, take a quick reccy and see if you can find an address book, phone numbers – that sort of thing.’

  ‘What about fingerprints?’ Swift asked.

  ‘Forget the fingerprints. Forget all that sweety mice stuff about clues. All we’re lookin’ for is a name. Just a name, that’s all we need.’ Swift opened the sideboard drawers and started to rummage in the clutter. ‘And another thing, we need a next of kin – presumably a Mr Simons. If he isn’t the bugger that
done her in.’

  ‘There were no men’s clothes in the wardrobe or bedroom. No shaving stuff or anything in the bathroom.’ Swift said.

  ‘So then, maybe there isn’t a Mr Simons after all. She’s not wearing a wedding ring, either.’

  Out by the phone he found a tiny piece of card with the words ‘Dad’s work’ and a number. As he looked in vain for others he heard Gracey say, ‘The boy Beckett who does the snaps is a great character – he has a collection of shots from all the cases he’s ever done. Get him to show you them some time but on an empty stomach, for some would make your hair curl. That’s for sure. And he does homers, too, so any time you need a family photograph or something like that give him a shout. But then you’re not married, are you, son?’ Swift dialled the number. Before he had finished Gracey was standing at his elbow. ‘You’re not goin’ to tell them on the phone – you can’t tell someone something like this over the phone,’ he said taking the scrap of paper from his hand.

  ‘I wasn’t going to,’ Swift said. ‘I was just finding out where it is.’

  ‘Right, right,’ said Gracey. ‘And if it’s her da, we need him to identify the body.’

  ‘Does he have to see her like this?’ Swift asked.

  ‘No, by then we’ll have her down the morgue. Cleaned up a bit.’

  Someone answered the phone. It was a factory on the Castlereagh Road. Swift asked to speak to a manager. As he waited he realized that if Simons was her married name they wouldn’t know the man he was looking for, but he took a chance and asked if they employed a Mr Simons. After a few moments it was confirmed that a Thomas Simons worked in the stores. It seemed they were in luck. But luck wasn’t the right word, for Swift suspected already that Gracey wanted him to collect the man and take him to the morgue. ‘No rush, son,’ Gracey said, ‘Still work to do here.’ But despite his talk of work he remained anchored to the chair, his open coat flapping over the armrests and hiding most of it, so that it looked as if what supported him was his own weight.

  In a few moments Burns returned with his notebook in his hand and a pencil stuck behind his ear. ‘I drew the short straw there,’ he said, ‘for we’re all livin’ in the last days and our friend’s demise is just a sign that the trumpet’s about to blow. But I think we’re in clover for she says since the woman moved in about six months ago there’s been plenty of goings-on – cars arrivin’ at all hours, that sort of thing – and in particular a fella, youngish with black hair – looks a bit of a Teddy boy – comes a lot in a taxi. Stays over. Leaves in the morning.’

  ‘He’ll be the one, then,’ Gracey said, as he started to put on his boots. ‘Get Anderson and Ripley to check taxi firms if they remember bringin’ someone to this address on a regular basis. Where they pick him up. If they need more help, get them to see the desk sergeant. Overtime if we need it.’

  Swift rummaged again in the drawers but there was little that was personal. No address book, no photographs, just a couple of letters from a girlfriend working as a waitress in Liverpool. The contents of the house had a feeling of newness, of being recently chosen, but there were no receipts or hire-purchase agreements, nothing official or written. In her purse was a small amount of money and a photograph of presumably her as a small child. On the back was an address. Swift glanced to where Gracey and Burns were sitting and slipped the photograph into his pocket.

  After the doctor had come and gone the photographer arrived holding two wooden boxes by their leather handles. He was a small man and the felt hat he wore seemed too big for his head. The brim was curling and would have given it the look of a sombrero if it hadn’t been for the white braiding of snow. He joked with Gracey and Burns while he set up his equipment and loaded the flashes, but after a few moments they moved into the kitchen to escape the endless acrid splurge of light. Swift watched him do the angles, listened to his inane commentary about the snow and the difficulty of reaching the scene, then turned his back slightly and looked at the photograph. The girl was maybe about ten years of age and on a swing. Smiling as her momentum carried her backwards, her legs tight together pushing the air, her arms stretched above her head and holding the chains. As he pocketed it again he turned to see Beckett carefully opening the front of her gown to expose one of her breasts. When he saw Swift staring at him, he raised the camera to his face as he said, ‘For the catalogue. Nothing personal.’ Swift didn’t reply but left the room.

  In the kitchen he asked Gracey if he could go and was told to phone for a car to collect Simons. ‘Meet him at the morgue down at the Sand Quay,’ said Gracey, ‘We’ll have her sent over there shortly. You take the car, then go back to the barracks afterwards.’ When he opened the front door he met the snow-striped shape of Johnston huddled on the doorstep. ‘Bloody hell, how much longer is it goin’ to take?’ he asked. ‘It’s brass monkeys out here. I’ll be gettin’ bleedin’ frostbite if I’m here much longer.’ ‘Not much longer now,’ said Swift, ‘they’re just waiting for Beckett to finish.’ ‘It’ll be me needin’ a doctor soon,’ moaned Johnston, then he clapped his hands in an attempt to put some warmth into them and expel his exasperation. When Swift set off to find the car it struck him that given the choice he would readily have swopped jobs.

  When he found the car it was a hump of white and he had to clear the windscreen, using his arms like giant wipers to scoop away great crusts of snow. As he got inside it felt like entering an igloo and a powder of snow followed him when he closed the door. He had never driven a car in snow before, and he didn’t like it. Although on the pavements it was a couple of feet deep, there was a narrowing channel down the middle of the road where the wheels of cars and lorries had compressed tracks but if the snow continued to fall, even this would disappear. The car felt unbearably light to his touch as if at any moment it might slide one way or the other. He drove very slowly, avoiding using the brakes as far as possible. At intervals he passed cars parked at crazy angles or abandoned. There was an empty bus skewed into a drifting bank of snow, and before very long it was obvious that he wasn’t going to be able to complete the journey by car. But he stayed with it as long as possible, then parked close to where he thought the kerb was and set out on foot. If anything, walking probably reduced the journey time and when he reached the city morgue there was no sign of Simons. He sat on a chair in a alcove off the white-tiled corridor and waited. A clerk from the office brought him a mug of tea and he cupped its warmth in both hands. About an hour later the same man told him that the body had been delivered. It took about another thirty minutes for the father to arrive.

  He was a small man, made smaller by the height of the two constables who accompanied him. Under his sports coat he wore blue factory overalls and he carried a lunch-box. The worst was probably over, Swift thought – the man knew he hadn’t been brought to the morgue to meet the living. Someone else had broken that part of the story and Swift was glad. He stood up and thought of shaking the man’s hand but just introduced himself instead and, as they followed the attendant, struggled for anything else to say. The two constables had not followed and he was conscious of the clack of heels on the stone floors when they were led into the deepening silence of the building. There was a smell of the man, maybe petrol or oil, some factory odour that clung to his clothes and skin. Whatever grief he carried looked cowed and subservient to the unfamiliar world of officialdom he had suddenly encountered. His face was blank, almost neutral in its expression. When they reached the doors Swift paused and said, ‘I’m sorry about this but it has to be done. We’ll not linger – better to remember the person as they were when they were alive. That’s what I think, anyway.’ The man nodded and tucked the lunch-box tight under his arm.

  They had done a good job, probably the best that could be expected in the short time available. The sheet covering her body hid the terrible necklace she wore, and much of the terror Swift had seen earlier had somehow been drained away to be replaced with something that looked more like sleep. He felt relief. His gratitude. The ma
n stood still, saying nothing at first, almost as if he didn’t recognize her, and then looked away.

  ‘Mr Simons,’ Swift said, as the attendant replaced the sheet.

  ‘That’s her, that’s Alma,’ the man said, running the cuff of his jacket across his nose and mouth. He turned away and Swift thought for a second of putting his arm on the man’s shoulder but as he hesitated he turned again and without looking at Swift asked, ‘And somebody killed her?’

  ‘I’m afraid it looks that way,’ Swift said. ‘We’re pretty certain.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to hurt her?’ Simons asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Swift answered, ‘but I’m going to do my best to find the person that did it.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Simons said. ‘She didn’t deserve that. Nobody deserves that.’ He took his lunch-box from under his arm and held it in both hands like something precious. Swift shepherded him towards the doors, anxious for them both to move away from where the now hidden corpse still pressed its presence into their memory. Once outside, he led him to the chairs in the alcove and asked the two policemen to give them a few minutes. Simons looked cowed again, and when he spoke he sounded almost apologetic for the supposed inconvenience he was causing everyone. Swift tried to be gentle with him, and for a few seconds they spoke of only the snow, then slowly he started to ask about his daughter and her situation. But there was little that sounded particularly useful in the responses.