by Alex Walters
He banged it once more, savagely. Then, with no idea what else to do, he reached down and twisted the door handle, expecting nothing other than to make more noise.
To his surprise, the handle turned and the door opened.
He stared into the hallway beyond. It was in darkness. William could just discern the flowery wallpaper, the dark-stained wooden flooring. There was a faint scent of mould, mildew, mild putrefaction, almost welcome after the freezing freshness of the snowy night.
'Reverend! It's William. William Callaghan.' His voice echoed through the empty hallway, but there was no response. At the end of the dark hall, he could see a glimmer of light from behind a half-closed door. 'Reverend!'
The house was cold. Not as cold as the night behind him, but colder than he had expected. He walked a few more steps down the hallway, towards the light.
He had a sudden sense of unease. It was the cold. Perhaps the old man had no fire, no other heating, but even so the house was chillier than it should be. The chill of a place that had been abandoned, that was no longer inhabited.
He reached the internal door and pushed it fully open. The cold hit him again, more intense. And something else. A draught of air, rushing through the house, slamming shut the front door.
William looked around. A living room – sparsely furnished, but chaotic with scattered books and papers. The embers of a dying fire glowed faintly in the grate. An easy chair, a table with a glass and an empty bottle of gin.
The draught was coming from beyond the living room. Another door led into a kitchen. William crossed the room quickly, his discomfort growing.
The kitchen was in darkness, but William could make out a table and chairs, a gas stove, an old-style stone sink. The remains of a meal sat by the sink, an unwashed teacup, a half-empty tin of luncheon meat.
And the back door of the cottage, standing open to the snow-filled night.
Chapter 15
After the three detectives had left, Mrs Griffiths closed the living room curtains very firmly, as if the flimsy material would be proof against whatever ghosts might have been summoned that evening.
PC Brain lingered, apparently reluctant to tear himself away from the warmth of the room. 'Don't you worry, Mrs Griffiths,' he said. 'I'll be around to keep an eye on everything.'
Mrs Griffiths regarded him as if he offered slightly less protection than the curtains she had just drawn. 'We're very grateful for all your help.' There was an undeniable undertone of dismissal in her words, but Brain seemed not to notice.
'It's bound to be a shock,' he went on. 'Just stumbling across it like that. And with the children too.'
This time it was Mary's turn to intervene. 'We really shouldn't keep you, Bryan. You've been a tremendous support. But you've a job to do and–'
'My job's to make sure you and your mother–'
'I know, Bryan. But we're fine now. You ought to be making sure that all the evidence is undisturbed.'
'You've got a point there, Mary. Those chaps…' He gestured towards the door through which Winterman and his colleagues had recently departed. 'They're dependent on me.' With a sigh of evident regret, he placed his empty teacup on the sideboard. 'I'd better be off.'
He was well-intentioned, Mary thought, and no fool. But he was too young to be wasting his life in this backwater, desperately seeking excitement where none was to be found.
Or was she simply projecting her own emotions on to the eager-looking young man? He had been sweet on her once, back at school, she remembered. She had thought he was a bit wet, though nice enough. Perhaps they should throw their lot in together and make a break for somewhere that would fulfil both their ambitions.
'You're sure you'll be all right?'
'We'll be fine. Really.' She was growing accustomed to the imaginary life developing inside her head, an alternative to the bleak tawdry reality. Most of her fantasies involved flight, leaving everything behind, finding a new life. In those dreams, she was prepared to consider almost any potential partner. Even dear old Bryan Brain. 'It's not as if there's any kind of real threat, is it?'
'I suppose not,' Brain conceded. 'But I'll pop in tomorrow just to make sure.'
He finally made his departure after what seemed an endless routine of gathering his overcoat, putting on his helmet, collecting his notebook and other paraphernalia, and bidding yet another round of farewells to Mary and her mother.
Finally, Mary closed the front door behind him, briefly watching him trudging disconsolately away through the falling snow before returning to the comparative warmth of the living room.
Mrs Griffiths was sitting by the dying fire, her head in her hands.
'You okay, Mam?'
Her mother looked up, as if momentarily surprised by Mary's return. 'Just a bit tired. You know.'
'You should get up to bed.'
'I will. And so should you. It's getting late.'
Mary nodded. 'And I'm supposed to be at work again tomorrow.' She caught the look in her mother's eye. 'In theory.' She waved her hand towards the curtained window. 'They'll understand if I take a day off. In any case, unless this snow lets up, I can't see much chance of getting in anyway.'
Mrs Griffiths smiled. 'You mustn't let them down, but I'd be glad if you were here tomorrow.'
Mary sat down heavily in the chair opposite her mother. 'They'll have the team from HQ out here tomorrow to sort out the evidence.' She stopped abruptly, embarrassed at having brought up the subject again.
'Who do you think it is, love?' Mrs Griffiths said unexpectedly. 'Out there, I mean.'
Mary's eyes were fixed on the glowing coals in the fire. 'Who are they, you mean? There are two of them. Two little girls.' Despite herself, she found she was moving into territory she would rather have left unexplored. 'Two little children.'
'Poor things.' Mrs Griffiths spoke without obvious emotion, her words automatic, a routine incantation to ward off harm.
'But who are they, Mam?' Mary spoke with sudden vehemence, as though the question had only just occurred to her. She rose and, with a restless air, strode across to the window. As she tugged the curtain back, she could almost feel her mother's anxious wince behind her. 'Nobody's missing. Nobody's been missed.' She paused. 'Not since Gary.'
She felt, rather than heard, her mother coming up close behind her, and she turned to see Mrs Griffiths staring past her into the night, her eyes wide with what might easily have been fear. 'It was the war, love. You know that. Things happened. People weren't missed.'
Mary stood watching her mother, conscious of the movement of the snow, ceaseless in her peripheral vision. 'No, Mam,' she said at last. 'People were missed. People are missed.' Ignoring her mother's presence at the window, she abruptly closed the curtains and returned to her seat by the dying fire.
'People are missed,' she said again.
Chapter 16
Winterman woke earlier than he had expected. Opening his eyes, he had the sense that he had been disturbed in the middle of a dream, but for once the details had already faded. He knew better than to try to chase down the fragmented memories.
The sun was not yet up, but there was a bleached quality to the darkness that told him the snow still lay thickly outside. He rolled over, feeling the weight of the bedclothes – the tightly tucked sheets, the blankets, the quilt – as an unacceptable burden. He reached out his hand to push himself upright, and felt the shocking graveyard cold of the empty half of the bed.
Why had he come back?
He knew that the question was hardly worth asking. He had come, after his mother had died, simply because the house was there. Then Spooner had presented him with the transfer, and it had felt destined, though he had no idea whether for good or ill. He still assumed that, before long, he would sell the house and find a place of his own. Until then, here he was. It was better than returning to the flat he and his wife Gwyneth had rented in Cambridge.
He climbed slowly to his bare feet, conscious of the chill of the bedroom, shivering
despite his thick flannel pyjamas. Bloody cold. It took him a moment more to find his dressing gown and slippers. Bloody, bloody cold.
He dragged back the curtains and peered out. It was still dark, though he could discern a paler band in the clouds to the east. Even by that faint glimmer, he could see that the snow was thick across the flat fields, white as far as he could see.
It had stopped snowing, but there was an ominous heaviness to the sky that suggested more was on the way. A bloody nuisance, for him and for everyone. As if people didn't have enough to deal with.
He fumbled his way to the bedroom door, finally finding the light switch. The bedroom looked bare and rather bleak, in need of decorating. Not surprising, after all these years. He imagined that decorating materials would be hard to come by, though he couldn't see himself making much effort in the near future.
His work suit was hanging up on the front of the wardrobe, and for a moment he contemplated getting dressed before going downstairs. But he needed to boil some water for a shave, get washed. It would be easier to brave the cold.
He shuffled through the kitchen, feeling increasingly sorry for himself. The stone floor tiles were icy underfoot, and he could see the traceries of ice on the insides of the kitchen window. It was growing light outside, revealing the thick drifts of snow piled across the back garden. He filled the old tin kettle and stuck it on the gas stove, and began the ritual of preparing the teapot.
Getting into work would be an interesting challenge, even putting aside the question of what he might be able to do once he got there. On a normal day, the house was only a twenty or so minute walk from his new workplace – one of the practical reasons he'd decided he might as well move back in. At the time, so soon after his mother's death, it had seemed only sensible. Now it felt more like inertia, the path of least resistance.
Thirty minutes later, after a cup of tea and a lukewarm wash and shave, he emerged from the house, clad in his heavy suit and thick winter overcoat, his hat pulled low over his forehead. He had found an old pair of wellington boots in the scullery – his father's or perhaps even his own from way back, though he had no recollection of them. He had tucked his polished black brogues in his briefcase for wearing at the office. He couldn't imagine that Mrs Sheringham would accept wet boots inside, and he imagined she would be even less tolerant of stockinged feet.
The journey was less arduous than he had feared. The pavement was thick with snow, but the wind had blown large drifts against the line of front walls and fences, leaving the edge of the pavement relatively navigable.
He glanced at his watch. Just gone eight, but the street was deserted. The rows of Edwardian villas were blank faced, curtains closed, with no sign of habitation. At that time, there would normally be a few pedestrians beginning their journeys to work – on foot or heading for buses or the railway station. It was eerily quiet, with no passing traffic and the deadening thickness of the snow. He might be the last man alive.
He trudged on, beginning to enjoy the solitude despite himself. As he neared the market square, he glimpsed one or two more pedestrians, doggedly matching his own slow progress, heads down, eyes fixed on the treacherous ground in front of them.
He was already thinking pessimistically about the day ahead. They had nothing to go on, no information. He could imagine the endless hours of door-to-door questioning, the hope that someone, somewhere had an inking of who these little girls might be. It was an unenticing prospect given the size of the investigation team available to him. He could seek more resources from HQ, but he knew how long it had taken even to finalise his own transfer. Manpower was limited, and bureaucracy was apparently infinite. The snow would add a whole new set of challenges.
Almost without realising, he had reached the anonymous building that housed the outposted CID team. He stared up at the blank windows. Another Edwardian villa, a larger version of his parents' home. His own home, he corrected himself. At least for the moment.
Mrs Sheringham had provided him with a key the previous day, and he expected he would have to use it. But the front door was unlocked. He stepped inside, struck immediately by the relative warmth of the interior. 'Hello,' he called.
'Good morning, sir.' Mrs Sheringham emerged from her office, immaculate in a neat black dress, her painted lips opened in an apparently genuine smile. 'Bright and early.'
Winterman nodded. Perhaps she slept here. Perhaps she didn't sleep at all. 'Good morning, Mrs Sheringham.' He found himself inescapably drawn into the formality of her speech patterns. 'Nasty weather.'
'Very nasty,' she agreed. Then her smile disappeared so rapidly that Winterman was left thinking that he had mistaken its sincerity. 'And not only the weather. I've just taken a message. I think you'd better have a look at it.'
Chapter 17
Pyke woke suddenly, as if something – some unexpected noise or impact – had disturbed his sleep. For several seconds, he couldn't work out where he was. Nothing felt right – the angle of the morning light from the window, the colour of the ceiling, the feel of the bed. But everything was eerily familiar – not home, but tantalisingly close to home. Somewhere he once called home, he told himself, not even sure what he meant.
Then he woke fully and realised where he was, his mind slowly reconstructing the events of the previous evening.
It had been a mistake, he realised that now. Probably all of it, in retrospect. But certainly coming back had been a mistake. He had seen it in Howard's eyes as soon as he opened the door. He could see what Howard was thinking. Though Pyke had tried to make things clear, Howard had believed what he wanted to believe. As Howard always did.
Another fine mess.
But what else could he have done? It wasn't as if he'd come here on a whim. The previous night, he hadn't had much choice.
At least he was in the guest room. At least he'd managed, for once, to resist Howard's distinctive form of moral blackmail. That was something, even if the signal hadn't been sufficiently unequivocal for Howard.
This was also, he realised, why the room had seemed so familiar and yet so strange. It was like coming home, but he was only a guest.
He sat up and looked around. It was daylight – he could see the pale corona around the lemon-coloured curtains – but he had no idea what time. He didn't really even know when they'd finally retired for the night, after Howard had broken out the whisky. After midnight, certainly.
Pyke pulled back the bedclothes and sat on the edge of the bed. He was wearing a pair of pyjamas he had borrowed from Howard. Probably another mistake.
He hated this room, he realised. He was slightly taken aback by the strength of his emotion. He had never felt like that while he lived here – not so strongly anyway. Perhaps because then this room had been peripheral to his existence. It had been Howard's friends who stayed in here, and most of them probably loved everything about it. The brightly coloured décor. The endless photographs of Howard and his theatrical associates – each shot posed while straining every sinew to appear natural. Those phoney smiles, over-slick grins.
Now here he was again. The last place he should have been. Sighing, Pyke rose slowly to his feet and fumbled his way across to the window, pulling back the lemon curtains.
The snow was still there, thick and unsullied across the fields and, more importantly, across the road in front of the house. The snow was still here, and so was Pyke, and there was little sign he would be able to leave any time soon.
Chapter 18
PC Brain was rapidly drifting out of his depth. He knew this all too well, but didn't have the faintest idea what to do about it. He should probably call a halt, wait till someone most senior, more experienced, was here to assist. But then what? They couldn't just sit in silence or try to generate some small talk – not in the circumstances.
Perhaps he should take William back to the station, make this formal. That would be the smart thing to do, though he couldn't imagine William's father would take kindly to his son being arrested – or even
helping police with their enquiries, that infamous euphemism.
'Let me make sure I've got this straight,' he said, though it was the third time he had asked the question in slightly different words. 'You found the body last night, but you didn't report it till this morning?'
'Bloody early this morning.' William's reddened eyes carried the expression of one who didn't want to be reminded quite how early it had been.
Brain couldn't argue with that. It had been before seven when William had turned up on the doorstep of the police house, banging on the door and shouting up to the windows. Before that William had presumably had a half hour's walk back into the village.
But even so.
He looked past William, out through the still-open French windows, to where the body lay spread on the snow-covered lawn, its limbs distorted like a huge broken-backed crow.
'Can't we sit down now?' William asked. 'I'm dog tired.'
He looked it, Brain thought, and not just tired. It was definitely the morning after the night before. There was a manic quality to William that made Brain increasingly nervous. He looked around. 'We shouldn't really. This could be a crime scene. We don't want to disturb it.'
'It can't all be a crime scene,' William argued. 'Anyway, I've already disturbed it.'
That was rather the point, Brain thought, realising he had already lost control of the situation. 'I suppose we could sit in the kitchen. If we're careful.' He had no real idea how such care ought to be exercised.
He led William back into the kitchen, trying not to look too closely at the congealing remains of what had presumably been Fisher's last meal. In these circumstances, everything took on an unexpected poignancy. Fisher's ration book on the table, a thin tablet of allowances that would never be used.
William sat at the table and dropped his head into his hands. 'What a bloody mess.' It wasn't clear whether he was referring to Fisher's position or his own.