Winterman

by Alex Walters

  The cottage had been another part of the estate owned by Lord Hamshaw, the local MP, and the bereaved Morton family – a harassed-looking wife and a second small girl – could no longer afford the tenancy. They moved away, back to the wife's family up near Wisbech. Since then the building had been empty, another minor product of wartime inertia. The children had thrown stones through the windows, dared one another to enter its dank interior, broken down its doors. After a while, stones and bricks and tiles had been surreptitiously removed by neighbours, in some cases contributing, with ironic justice, to repairing Morton's own botched-up work.

  Now the place was a half-ruin, windows broken, roof half-collapsed, door gaping blankly open. Fisher hardly gave it a glance, his mired brain unfazed by its shadows and emptiness.

  He was almost past the cottage when he realised his bladder was uncomfortably full. It was another half-mile or so home. He glanced back over his shoulder. The road was deserted, but he retained an incongruous sense of clerical decorum. The old proprieties died hard.

  A rough path led past the side of the deserted cottage, providing access to the fields at the rear. Cursing mildly, he felt his way down the track, seeking privacy from the road.

  The back of the house lay open to the track. By the dim starlight, Fisher could make out a stone yard, a gaping rear door, two blank broken windows, some scattered debris. He stumbled on to the stone flags, out of sight of the road, and fumbled with his fly buttons.

  Afterward, when they were asking him what had happened, he realised he didn't know what had caught his attention. Some movement. Something skittering across his peripheral vision. A mouse or a rat, heading for the dark interior. Perhaps something else.

  Whatever it was, it caused him to stop his fumbling and turn to peer at the open rear doorway. He straightened, holding his breath, straining to hear any sound.

  There was nothing, not even a breeze. He stepped forward, squinting into the darkness.

  At first, he could see nothing beyond the black rectangle of the doorway. To the left, there was a broken chunk of wood, jagged at the end – part of the original back door. To the right, there was another object – an old plant pot, earth scattered across the stone.

  He took another step. He could see something, a shapeless mess of angles and curves. He felt a memory being stirred, somewhere deep in his mind.

  Somehow, despite the darkness, it was clear to him. He could see the twisted legs, the neat shoes, the dishevelled little coat. He even thought – though this had to be a trick of memory – he could see a pale pink bonnet that lay, further inside, discarded on the dirty kitchen tiles.

  He stood, frozen, his mind struggling to comprehend what his eyes were seeing. Unexpectedly, as if from another life, he heard distant voices. Singing, someone shouting. Chucking out time.

  No, he thought. Not again.

  Not his ghost story.

  Chapter 2

  'The good news,' she said, preceding him up the narrow stairway, 'is that, as senior officer on site, you get an office to yourself.'

  He followed her, a battered briefcase in his hand, awaiting the inevitable punchline. The sunlight caught his eyes as they reached the upper landing, dazzling him momentarily. Outside, the snow still lay thick on the ground, as it had for weeks.

  'The bad news,' she went on, in what he assumed was a well-rehearsed monologue, 'is that this is the office.' She threw open the door and ushered him inside. As he crossed the threshold, he noticed the carefully hand-painted sign. DI Cross. What had happened to DI Cross, he wondered.

  In fact, the office wasn't too bad. Smaller than most functioning broom cupboards, but that would at least discourage visitors. There was a heavy mahogany desk, too large for the room, a couple of battered-looking chairs, an old olive-green filing cabinet. A battered cork noticeboard with an old calendar pinned in the centre. 1945. Had that been left by DI Cross?

  There was a view as well. The office looked out on to the yard at the rear, away from the town on to the snow-covered fields, the familiar flat fen land, the empty blue of the winter sky. She had already moved past him to the window and was fumbling with the catch. 'I'll let in some air,' she said. 'It's a little stuffy.'

  He nodded, happy to let her get on with things. This was, he assumed, just her way of establishing her domain. He had no problem with that. As the new man, it was best to know where you stood.

  'I hope you'll be happy here, Inspector.'

  Winterman smiled. It wasn't necessarily the adjective he'd have chosen, but he recognised the sentiment was well meant. 'I'm sure I will be, Miss…?'

  She smiled back at his transparent flattery. 'Mrs Sheringham.' There was a momentary hesitation, as if she were about to offer her Christian name.

  'You're the…' He paused, unsure of the correct terminology. 'Office Manager?'

  She laughed, an attractively musical sound. 'That sounds terribly important. I'm just a secretary, really.'

  'But the place would fall apart without you, I'm sure.' Winterman joined in with her laughter, but he knew enough about the likes of Mrs Sheringham to be confident he spoke the truth. For all her bouncing blonde curls and pneumatic figure, she would run this place with an iron discipline. In any case, he noted she didn't bother to contradict him.

  He moved across to join her at the window. 'Decent view,' he said.

  She followed his gaze. 'I suppose so, if you like that kind of thing.'

  It wasn't entirely clear to Winterman what kind of thing she had in mind. 'It's been a cold winter though,' he offered.

  'Very. And turning even colder, they say.' There was a faint suggestion of an undertone to her words. Perhaps he would need to be careful.

  He stepped away and dropped his briefcase on to the desk top, hoping to convey a business-like air. 'So how many are we here?'

  'They didn't tell you?' Her tone suggested this was hardly surprising, though it wasn't clear whether the implied criticism was directed at him, or at those who had failed to provide the information.

  'Not really. Everything was a bit rushed. It's a small unit though, I understand?'

  'You could say that. There's you and two DCs. A part-time clerk. And me of course.'

  'It sounds plenty.' He immediately wondered whether his words were tactless. 'Unusual though. A separate unit like this. I'm surprised we've not been swallowed up by headquarters.'

  Her eyes narrowed, as though she was applying some kind of test. 'It will happen,' she said, with untroubled certainty. 'It's all about money these days, isn't it? We're really just an accident of history.'

  'Are we?' Winterman thought he might as well try the desk out for size. He sat down carefully, gazing at Mrs Sheringham as she stood silhouetted against the window.

  'The unit. There was some dispute about where we belonged. Then, when the war came along, I suppose they had bigger fish to fry.'

  Winterman opened his briefcase, wondering whether there was anything he could put out on the desk. Apart from a small pocket diary, he could see nothing. 'It's the same story everywhere. Whatever else it was, the war was a great excuse. No doubt the Act will sort it all out in due course.'

  'No doubt,' she said, without obvious conviction. The Police Act, passed the previous year, had been intended to rationalise the structure of local Constabularies. No one really believed its impact would be more than cosmetic. 'Though I imagine for the moment they're pleased to have us here.'

  There was nothing untoward in her tone, but Winterman took her words as a mild rebuke. Enough small talk. 'I suppose I should meet people,' he said. 'The others, that is.' He had seen the two DCs downstairs as Mrs Sheringham had led him through the building, both sitting upright behind their desks. Trying to look busy, he thought, though with no conspicuous success. He had nodded to them, but Mrs Sheringham, determined to make her own presence felt, had given him no opportunity to stop and talk.

  She moved away from the window and stood by the door. 'Would you like to see them up here?'
<
br />   Winterman looked around at the limited floor space, the single chair facing him. 'I think we'll risk a little informality downstairs, don't you?' He was careful to smile as he spoke, but there was no reciprocal expression from Mrs Sheringham.

  'As you wish, Inspector.'

  Chapter 3

  Mrs Griffiths sat up suddenly, her eyes wide but still unfocused. It took her a moment to realise what had happened. She had fallen asleep, sitting there in the armchair. Her library book – a new Georgette Heyer that had not yet caught her interest – had slipped from her lap to the rug.

  It's age, she thought. I never used to fall asleep in the daytime.

  She glanced at the old carriage clock on the mantelpiece. How long had she been sleeping? Not long. Perhaps a quarter of an hour. The power restrictions meant the electricity was out till mid-afternoon, and she had dropped off as it became too dark to read easily. Now, it was nearly four.

  But something had changed, even in that short time. She sat back in her chair, trying to work out what it was.

  The children. She had the children here today, of course, while Mary was at work. Before, she had been able to hear them playing in the kitchen, a low-level persistent squabble between them like a babble of running water.

  Now, the house was silent.

  A twinge of anxiety fluttered through her mind. What could happen in fifteen minutes? Any manner of things, she thought. Any manner of things.

  She pulled herself slowly to her feet, feeling the ache in her joints, and made her way to the kitchen. The door was ajar and, with relief, she saw Ann sitting in the far corner by the cooker, her head down, engaged in some complicated game with her dolls. Mrs Griffiths pushed the door fully open.

  'Where's Graham?' she asked.

  There was no sign of the boy. Ann continued playing with the dolls, oblivious to the question.

  'Ann, where's Graham?'

  Finally, the girl looked up at her grandmother. She still gave no response, but glanced across towards the door leading out to the rear of the bungalow. That too was ajar, an icy breeze spilling in from the garden.

  Outside, the snow lay thick across the small well-tended garden – across the neat lawn, the straight path her late husband had constructed from old stone inkwells from the school, the bare flower beds, the hedge and the wooden gate that led to the lane beyond.

  No sign of Graham.

  She peered out across the garden, though there was no place where Graham could be concealed.

  'Graham!' she called. There was no response.

  She looked down at her carpet slippers, feeling the chill of the air through her thin blouse. She hesitated, wondering whether to go back for her coat. Finally she plunged out into the cold afternoon.

  She strode as quickly as she could along the inkwell path, conscious of the snow beneath her feet, the polished stone. It would help no one if she were to slip and injure herself.

  She saw that, like the back door, the rear gate was slightly open. She gazed out into the lane beyond.

  It was a moment before she spotted him. Across the lane, a dyke separated the road from the snowy fields beyond. Some yards away, a row of wooden planks had been set across the dyke to provide access from the lane into the field. Graham was sitting on the edge of the planks, staring down into the frozen mud below the improvised bridge.

  'Graham!' she shouted. 'What are you doing? Come back in at once.' She glanced down the deserted road, suddenly feeling as if they were being observed. 'It's too cold to be out here. And you shouldn't leave the house without asking–'

  She stopped, aware that the boy was looking up at her. His expression was puzzled, the face of a child about to ask some unanswerable question.

  He looked back down at the darkness beneath the planks. 'Nan, there's something here. What do you think it is?'

  Chapter 4

  Winterman followed her slowly down the narrow stairs, with the awkward air of a visiting dignitary on a desultory guided tour.

  The offices had clearly once been a domestic residence. The rooms on the upper floor – his own new office, two meeting rooms, a small storeroom, a basic WC – had been converted from bedrooms. On the ground floor, the two DCs were accommodated in what had presumably been the main living room. Mrs Sheringham and the part-time clerk – who seemed to be absent today – shared a smaller, second room, which Winterman assumed had once been the parlour or drawing room. At the rear of the house, they had retained the old kitchen, with a gas ring and a kettle for making tea.

  Mrs Sheringham ushered Winterman into the larger office, where the two DCs were still sitting, one ostentatiously perusing an open file, the other with his fingers resting on the keyboard of a large upright typewriter, earnestly scrutinising the text of the report projecting from its carriage. Winterman wondered how long the two men had been sitting in these positions.

  Both DCs looked up expectantly, as if they had not noticed his entry until that point. Then, with unexpected co-ordination, they half-rose simultaneously, each hovering behind his desk in an awkward crouch, unsure how to acknowledge Winterman's presence.

  This must be how the king feels, Winterman thought. He should have had some suitable banalities prepared to put them at their ease. Instead, he stuck out his hand to the bobbing figure on his left. 'DI Winterman. Good to meet you at last.'

  For a second, the DC looked unsure how to respond. Finally, he extended his own hand to shake Winterman's, his expression suggesting this was a wholly unfamiliar social gesture.

  'DC Hoxton,' Mrs Sheringham said from behind, with only a faint emphasis on the policeman's rank. 'And this is DC Marsh.'

  Winterman turned his attention to Marsh, who returned his handshake with more straightforward enthusiasm. 'Good to meet you, sir. We look forward to working with you.'

  The two men could not have been more different. Hoxton was tall, slightly overweight and ineffably lugubrious, his dark eyes regarding Winterman with a mixture of anxiety and suspicion. The resemblance to a bloodhound seemed clichéd, given his profession, but it was undeniable, somehow intensified by a black drooping moustache that he had presumably cultivated deliberately.

  Marsh, on the other hand, looked a bundle of uncontrolled nervous energy. Slightly shorter than Hoxton – though still towering substantially above Winterman – he was almost hopping on the spot, constantly brushing back a lank fringe of Brylcreemed black hair that immediately fell down again into his blinking eyes. In contrast to his colleague, he looked genuinely pleased to see Winterman.

  Winterman gestured the two men to sit. He pulled up one of the office's numerous hard-backed chairs and lowered himself on to it, careful to position the chair equidistant between the two desks. He glanced back over his shoulder. 'Mrs Sheringham, I wonder whether you'd mind getting us all a cup of tea?'

  She opened her mouth as if to challenge his request, then nodded, a smile fixed on her neatly made-up face. 'Of course, Inspector. How do you take yours?'

  'Just milk. I'll donate my sugar coupons to the office, if you like.'

  She nodded again. 'Sweet enough, Inspector.' She turned on her high heels and vanished into the kitchen.

  Winterman turned back to the two DCs. Marsh had a hand to his mouth, apparently suppressing a smirk. Hoxton looked genuinely astonished. It occurred to Winterman that perhaps no one had ever dared make a direct request of Mrs Sheringham before.

  'It's good to see you here, sir,' Marsh said again. He sounded unexpectedly sincere.

  'What happened to DI Cross?' Winterman looked from Marsh to Hoxton and then back again, smiling blandly.

  'Promoted, sir,' Hoxton said. His voice was deep and ponderous, his accent rich with a cockney twang. The overall effect did little to dissipate the impression of a morose canine. 'DCI somewhere in Lincolnshire, I believe. Couple of years ago now.'

  'A couple of years ago?' Winterman repeated. 'How long have you been here?'

  'Eight years,' Hoxton said, in a tone which suggested this was a mat
ter of infinite regret. Eight long years, he might well have added. 'Came out here just before the war.'

  'Only a year for me, sir, ' Marsh added brightly.

  'There's been no DI here since Cross left?'

  'No, sir,' Marsh said. 'You can see why we're glad to see you. Particularly in the circumstances.'

  Winterman could see all too easily. He could even, he supposed, see why they might have chosen him. No one else would want to risk his career in this benighted backwater. 'So who have you reported to?'

  'We've notionally been based out of Ely,' Marsh said. 'Reporting to one of the DIs there.'

  'He did come down here once,' Hoxton acknowledged.

  'Twice,' Marsh corrected. 'You were off sick the second time.'

  'Aye. Twice then.'

  Winterman observed this exchange, his neck twisting like a spectator's at a tennis match. A variety act, he thought. They had this routine off pat.

  Behind him, the kitchen door opened and Mrs Sheringham reappeared bearing a tin tray holding a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and – he noted – four teacups. She had judged him worthy of the best china. He wondered how long that would last.

  She placed the tray carefully on Hoxton's desk and poured cups for them all. She poured her own last, and then stood looking down over Winterman. 'Do you need anything else for the moment, Inspector?'

  He gazed back at her impassively. 'Not for the moment, Mrs Sheringham, thank you. Please don't let me interrupt your work any further.' Winterman bit his lower lip, conscious that at any moment he might start laughing.

  'Not at all, Inspector.' Her own expression was equally unwavering. 'I'm here if you need me.'

  She walked silently back into her own office. After a moment, the door closed behind her with a gentle but firm click.

  'An impressive lady.' Winterman turned back to the DCs. 'Keeps the place ticking over, I'm sure.'