Snow Light

by Danielle Zinn

  But the silence remained.

  Something’s odd here, he thought.

  From where he stood, Thomas could hear the distant noise from the main road echoing back through the forest behind the house, and the wind blew snippets of a conversation towards him — probably some neighbours assessing the latest winter sport results.

  He glanced back to his car again, where Sky now appeared to be asleep, and decided to walk around the house. The first window he peered through revealed the bedroom, and he hoped not to catch the elderly lady in the act of getting dressed. An ornate double bed stood in the centre of the room. But it only held one set of bedding. Presumably, Mrs Cleaves’ husband had already died. Her cover, however, was pulled back, and the pillow was dented.

  Someone must have slept in there last night.

  At the next window, the shutter was closed… the bathroom, certainly.

  Thomas walked around the corner of the house and reached the backyard, where flowerbeds had been covered with branches of pine for the winter. There was a little brown shed to his left, and through the dirty windows, he could make out some garden chairs, sun loungers, and a table.

  He strode back to the patio door. Behind it, he spotted the living room with a couch, TV set, and some potted plants. On the couch table, there was an empty wine glass and bottle next to a book, as well as a yogurt pot and a bag of crisps. It was just the way millions of living rooms around the world looked in the morning when their inhabitants were too tired to tidy up in the evening, Thomas thought.

  He turned around another corner of the house when his foot hit a metal grid. Underneath was a small shaft with an even smaller barred window — the basement, he assumed.

  Through the cobwebbed window, Thomas could make out a tiny gleam of light. He bent down and shouted Mrs Cleaves’ name, trying to make his appearance known.

  But the house remained silent.

  Either she had left the light on accidentally or she was downstairs picking up some missing condiment for breakfast from a storage room.

  When he looked through the last window, Thomas quickly found his assumption confirmed — the breakfast table was set with coffee, bread, butter, jam and cheese.

  He knew that basement walls could block out any noise from the upper floors and simply decided to wait for her to come back, and then he’d gently knock on the window so as not to scare her.

  He used his waiting time to check on Sky, who was sound asleep in the car. Some colour had returned to her face, and Thomas was wondering whether they should have a light lunch later on in Stony Creek or rather try and get home as quickly as possible.

  Crossing his arms in front of his chest, he leaned on the car, looking back at the lone house.

  Something felt wrong, but he could not quite put his finger on it.

  Someone certainly lived in this house, but it was rather late for breakfast, and all the elderly people he knew made their bed as soon as they got up. But then again, there was no rule when to have breakfast or when to tidy up.

  Thomas did not feel comfortable. It was not as though he was being watched; but rather, the house itself gave him goose bumps. He pushed the feeling aside, blaming it on the dark and grey weather.

  Instead, he imagined the house in the summer, bathed in bright sunshine, beautiful flowers blooming all around, birds singing, and the aromatic smell of pine trees wafting through the air. The patio door would be wide open, with Mrs Cleaves sitting on the porch enjoying a piece of homemade cake and a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

  And then it struck him. He suddenly knew why he felt so odd about this house.

  30

  THOMAS ran back to the kitchen window. Fresh — that’s what was missing! Nothing he had seen inside seemed fresh. That was not jam covering the bread but a thick layer of mould. Dust had settled on the surface of the kitchen table and windowsill, and the leaves on the potted plants were hanging down dry and brown.

  Someone had indeed lived there… but that was days or weeks earlier. And it seemed that person was distracted in the middle of enjoying breakfast, as he or she had left the table and apparently never returned.

  Was there still someone in the house? And where was Rose Cleaves? Dozens of questions and wild speculations raced through Thomas’s mind.

  He dashed to the front door and felt his pockets. Damn it, he thought. His picklock was lying uselessly in his office. Instead, he fished out his wallet; first considering his credit card, but then he changed his mind and decided to use his gym membership card as a door opener. Being one of the gym’s loyal customers, he would easily get a replacement if the card snapped.

  Within thirty seconds, the closed but unlocked front door swung open, and a wall of strong, sweet-smelling decay hit Thomas’s nostrils. He took one last deep breath of fresh air and pulled his jumper high over his nose.

  The house was even smaller inside than it appeared from the outside. Behind the front door was a wardrobe and a moderately filled shoe cabinet. An open glass door led to a narrow hallway, and Thomas suddenly felt the walls and ceiling closing in on him.

  Anyone suffering from claustrophobia would not have made it three steps inside this house.

  But the overpowering stench and urgent desire to leave this place as soon as possible made him shake off his angst and move forward.

  From the corridor, to his immediate right, a spiral wooden staircase led to the upper floor, and he assumed that the closed door in front of him opened into the kitchen and living room — rooms he had already peered at through the windows.

  He turned left and slowly pushed down the handle of yet another door. Behind it, he found the unmade bed and two floor-to-ceiling wardrobes. He closed the door again carefully.

  The walls in the hall were decorated with family portraits and a daily tear-off calendar. The date showed November twenty-third — three weeks earlier.

  As Thomas ventured deeper into the house, an artificial light flickered into the hall from an open door, built in underneath the staircase, to his right. Roughly hewn steps led downstairs.

  Thomas knew there was no point searching the upper rooms first when the basement practically screamed his name in capital letters. He braced himself for whatever he might find down there.

  The decaying smell got stronger and mixed with dampness when he ducked his head through the door frame. Even though he descended sideways, the staircase was so narrow that his broad shoulders brushed the walls on both sides, leaving limestone stains on his dark parka.

  After the first five steps, Thomas reached a small but even surface. A case of beer and water was stored there, and he had to turn around a corner to find the end of the staircase.

  And the source of the decaying stench.

  A human being lay sprawled at the end of the cold stone staircase, legs and feet still touching the last steps.

  Thomas could not make out whether he was looking down at a man or a woman, as a white morning gown had flapped over the back of the person, covering the head and hair. He carefully walked down the last steps.

  He knew there was nothing he could do for this poor creature anymore, so there was no point in rushing down the moist stairs and risking a fall. At the bottom, he delicately stepped over the body and crouched down beside where he assumed he’d find the head.

  The basement consisted only of this one room containing a freezer, gardening equipment, and a cupboard with canned food. It all looked relatively tidy.

  Thomas turned his attention back to the body in front of him. His eyes were watering from the horrible stench, and he used his handkerchief to pull back the gown as a startled little mouse hurried away into the darkness, squeaking at him angrily.

  Again, he realised that no amount of training or professional experience could prepare him for the sight of a decaying human being, which was exactly what was staring back at him now.

  An elderly woman in her late sixties or early seventies was looking at his feet through dull eyes, mouth wide open. Her short b
londe hair resembled straw, and her chin rested on her left hand, displaying long yellow fingernails. The entire body was puffy and bloated from the basement’s humidity. Her white skin was interrupted by blackish patches.

  Thomas assumed she must have fallen down the stairs and hit her head at the bottom, as dried blood was stuck to the ground and maggots had lodged themselves in her head wound.

  He took a picture and hurried back outside, pulling his jumper down from his nose and hastily taking several gulps of fresh crisp air.

  The sky above him had darkened considerably, and a light drizzle had set in. Leaning on the bonnet of his car and enjoying the soft rain on his face he sent the photo to Collins, wondering, yet again, where the case would lead them.

  Sky was still asleep, and after a while, he pushed himself away from the car, walking slowly towards a cluster of conifers.

  He rang his sergeant. “I’ve sent you a picture.”

  “Already looking at it. What did you do to her?”

  Thomas ignored her remark. “Could that be Rose Cleaves?”

  “I’m fairly sure that’s her, but I would advise doing a DNA test before informing her next of kin; it’s always embarrassing when you have to tell them that we mixed up the victims and they have to give their inheritance back.”

  He ignored her remark again. “I just found her like that in her basement. Looks like she fell down the stairs, hit her head, dead. The calendar shows November twenty-third, which coincides with the amount of mould on her breakfast. I want Laura to have a look at her though, to be sure it was an accident. Could you arrange that for me, please? I’ll wait here for her.”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you working today?” Thomas asked carefully, and was met by a long silence.

  “Yeah. After I tried the Jacuzzi and watched three movies, I got bored,” Collins replied melodramatically. “And I’ve looked through all the files. The entire stack. Even the copies from the eight people you wanted to research.”

  He cringed. There was no point in arguing that he had, after all, already been halfway through with his eight folders. Thomas knew he had not exactly covered himself with glory.

  “And?”

  Collins exhaled sharply. “There is the odd weirdo, as there is in every family, but nobody who really stands out. Most of the healthy people can barely remember why they needed surgery in the first place, and hardly any of them knows that one of their kidneys is missing. None of the dead people’s relatives provided enough proof to arrest them on suspicion of murder, and they have alibis. But maybe we should go through the pile of patients who are currently in hospital or rehab, again. We, or rather I, might have missed something, as your contribution to this research leaves a lot to be desired. However, these sick people have called my attention to another matter.”

  “And that would be…?” Thomas asked, hoping she would stop picking on him.

  “Dialysis. I asked St Anna Hospital and two other hospitals in the surrounding area to email me a list of their current dialysis patients for further reference.”

  “Because…” he asked, kicking away a pine cone.

  He had noticed that as well — the last two people he had researched needed dialysis.

  “Because the majority of Lawson’s former patients have developed kidney problems at some point and might need regular dialysis now. We can cross-reference names and maybe something stands out. It may not be one of his former patients that killed him after all, it could have been someone else who needs dialysis, and has heard the story, and I don’t know… is a lover of justice and took the matter into their own hands.” When Thomas remained silent, she went on, “I know this is very far-fetched, but since there happens to be only dead bodies behind every door you open, I thought this could be another angle to the case.”

  “Good. Then you do the field work next time. See what you find behind closed doors,” he mocked.

  “And you do the research?” Collins asked sarcastically. “Every suspect far and wide will have died of natural causes by the time you’re done.”

  “Thanks. Now please call Laura and tell her to hurry up.”

  31

  ONLY half an hour later, a black Jeep pulled up behind his car.

  “Glad you could make it so fast,” Thomas greeted his favourite pathologist.

  “You were a great excuse to leave my mother-in-law’s birthday party. She lives around the corner from here,” Laura replied with a smile.

  “Oh, sorry to interrupt your family gathering.” Thomas made an apologetic face. “I promise it won’t take long.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not in a rush to get back to chewy sponge cake and decaf coffee. Is this your usual weekend trip? Sky looks like she’s having a whale of a time,” Laura said, pointing towards the sleeping girl.

  Thomas laughed. “I didn’t expect to find a body. I just wanted to interview this lady briefly and then head back home. She was one of Lawson’s assistants. And Sky was sick all the way.”

  “Poor thing. Shall we?” she asked, pointing towards the house.

  “The body’s been there for three weeks, according to the tear-off calendar. It smells a bit strong.”

  “You don’t say,” Laura replied, covering her nose.

  Thomas led her downstairs to the basement, and together they carried the body back up into the living room and carefully placed her on the carpet.

  Not that it mattered much whether she was lying on a carpet or tiles.

  He pulled the dressing gown and pyjama top down and stepped aside for Laura to examine the body. Rose Cleaves’ wide eyes still told of the shock she must have suffered when realising she was falling down the stairs and nobody would hear her screams. Thomas hoped that she had died instantly.

  Laura turned her over, and she lay on her face once again. Her back was covered in white, grey, and blackish blotches. Not too long before, she had been a pretty woman with a slim figure and immaculate hair, but now tiny flies embarked from every opening of her body.

  “Look at this,” Laura said, pointing towards six dots on the victim’s back just below her neck. They were barely visible, and Thomas would have assumed they were just a different shade of skin colour attributed to the decaying process. But the pathologist lifted her own hands up and held her index, middle, and ring finger below the marks. And now Thomas knew what she meant.

  Rose Cleaves had not fallen down the stairs due to her own clumsiness; but rather, someone had helped her with one strong push.

  “A burglary gone wrong?” Laura asked, looking up at him.

  “I doubt it,” Thomas replied, staring absent-mindedly through the window. “I couldn’t find any signs of a break-in, her purse is on the table over there, and the front door was just pulled shut, not locked from the inside. No, she must have let her killer in, and then, when she was of no use anymore, she was pushed down the stairs. Probably to make it look like an accident.”

  “Is this connected to Dr Lawson?”

  “I’d be surprised if not,” Thomas said gently. “And I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “So, you think her death was justified?”

  “No, but her killer thought so.”

  Laura looked down at their victim, shaking her head slightly. “One should never play God.”

  Thomas called the Stony Creek forensic team, and they waited inside Laura’s car for them to arrive.

  By then, heavy rain had set in, and dark clouds loomed above them. He felt like he had travelled to a different climate zone, having left the arctic cold and snow behind and moved to a more temperate area. Laura switched on the headlights for their colleagues to find them in the gloomy little forest.

  “You don’t happen to have anything for car sickness with you, do you?” Thomas asked hopefully.

  Wordlessly, she opened the glove compartment and handed him a bag of bin liners.

  “Thanks. I would have preferred something to avoid having to use these,” Thomas replied, dangling the packet in fr
ont of her.

  “I’m a pathologist. None of my clients has ever complained about sickness or pain.” She shrugged.

  Thomas laughed dryly. “On the other hand, it can’t get any worse than the decaying smell in there; it’s clinging to my nose.”

  Laura smiled. “I would advise against driving back home with your windows down again. Once you’re wet from the rain here, you might really catch pneumonia.”

  “Thanks. Could you oversee forensics to make sure the job is done properly, please? Sky will wake up sooner or later, and I don’t really want her to see all the turmoil. And I need to talk to Collins. Unless, of course, you want to go back to chewy sponge cake and decaf coffee.”

  “Not all too desperately, no.” She laughed.

  When their colleagues arrived, Thomas showed them the crime scene and asked for a thorough search of fingerprints and any other abnormalities to be reported to him directly and immediately.

  Dripping wet and slightly cold, he slipped into his car seat, his black hair stuck to his head. Sky looked at him quietly, her blanket pulled up to her pale nose.

  “What are all these people doing here?” she asked, pointing to the window where rain ran down in small rivulets, making it hard to look outside.

  “I think there is important evidence in that house which we need to solve the case. And my colleagues will bag it and bring it to St Anna Police Station.”

  She did not look convinced but seemed too weak to ask any more questions.

  “There, eat some cookies,” Thomas said, handing her a packet he kept stored in his armrest for emergencies.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “But your tummy needs something to be kept busy while driving home so it won’t get sick again. Come on, just nibble a bit.”

  Reluctantly Sky took the packet, and he put the bin liners in his side compartment, where they would be easily accessible. After carefully reversing out of his now mud-filled parking spot, they returned onto the small street lined with houses on both sides. Not even the presence of several police cars with flashing blue lights piqued the interest of any of the neighbours.