by Alex Walters
'Take me through it again,' Brain said, still unsure if he was doing the right thing.
William looked up and stared at him, catching a hint of Brain's uncertainty. 'What is this? Am I being questioned?'
'Just making conversation. Though no doubt the CID will want to interview you when they get here.' Which Brain profoundly hoped would not be much longer.
'No doubt,' William agreed. 'Better get my story straight then, hadn't I?' He smiled faintly. 'I suppose it doesn't sound too good, now I think about it? I find a dead body and then decide to stay the night. But it wasn't really like that.'
'But that is what happened?' Brain said. It was a genuine question. William had been making little sense when he'd arrived at the police house that morning.
'Yes. Sort of. But you saw what the snow was like last night. I came in here looking for shelter, and what I found was that…' He gestured out towards the garden where Fisher's body still lay. 'Poor old bugger.'
'So you decided to stay the night?' Brain was genuinely baffled.
'No – well, yes. I was bloody sozzled. Not thinking straight. Not thinking at all. I don't know what I else I could have done. The snow was still coming down. It was real brass-monkey weather. I was all sheets to the wind. If I'd tried to get back to the village, you'd have ended up with two corpses on your hands.'
'Where did you sleep?' Brain had a sudden unwanted image of William drunkenly crawling into the old man's unused bed.
'On the couch in there,' William said. 'Suddenly all became too much. Didn't even close the bloody windows properly. Hope I didn't mess up the crime scene.' He paused, as if he'd only then registered the significance of what he'd said. 'Though crime scene would imply a crime.'
'Just routine.' Brain hoped his bluff wouldn't be called. 'If there's a dead body, we have to protect the scene until we know the cause.'
He got most of this stuff from Edgar Wallace thrillers on the Home Service. He was acutely conscious he hadn't actually been out to examine the body for himself. It was better to leave it until the experts arrived.
William frowned, as if some thought had just struck him. 'That's…' He shook his head as though trying to clear it. 'I'm sure you're right. Don't want to speak ill of the dead, and we all know old man Fisher liked a drink or two. ' He hesitated again. 'It's just–'
'What is it?' Brain wondered whether he should find William a glass of water. It looked as if the hangover was finally beginning to strike in earnest.
William lowered his head into his hands, then peered at Brain through his spread fingers. 'I'd swear off the bottle for good, if there was any chance I meant it. I'm trying to think…' He rubbed his fingers against his temples as though hoping literally to stimulate his brain cells. 'I remember coming in. I remember the cold and finding the windows open. Then it's all a bit hazy. But there's something…'
William stumbled to his feet, looking as if his inebriation had returned. His face was ashen and for a moment Brain thought the young man might be about to vomit. Instead, he pushed past Brain and staggered back into the sitting room.
By the time Brain reached the living room, William was already stumbling through the half-open French windows out into the freezing morning. Brain leapt across the room, but it was too late. William had crouched down by Fisher's prone body and was struggling to turn it over.
'You can't–' Brain's thoughts were already racing ahead to what Winterman and his colleagues would have to say. Then he stopped dead.
'Look at it.' William's voice was hoarse. 'I saw it last night. I must have seen it last night. I checked whether he was breathing. I'm sure I checked…' He forced the corpse over on to its back.
Brain had stopped at the windows, transfixed by what he was seeing, trying to make sense of it.
The ground underneath the body was clear of snow, and the grass was stained black – a small pool of congealed blood that had spread, tainting the whiteness around it.
'I saw it,' William repeated. 'I must have blanked it out. It was the drink and the shock. But I must have seen it…'
Protruding from the body's abdomen, jutting at a low angle below the rib cage, was the black bone handle of a kitchen knife. Before Brain could stop him, William touched the knife handle, apparently intent on pulling it from the flesh. Reacting a moment too late, Brain knocked William's hand away. 'Don't be daft. That's evidence. Just leave it.'
William looked up at Brain for a moment, his expression blank. Then he slumped on to the frozen snow beside Fisher's body, his face pressed into his hands. 'I must have seen it.'
Brain stood, unable to move, wondering what the hell he was going to do next.
There was no doubt about it. He really was seriously out of his depth.
Chapter 19
Winterman was beginning to see himself as the angel of death.
He had been here only two days, and already he'd tripled the body count. Quite impressive, even though he was assuming the old man would turn out to be natural causes. Hoxton had already told him Fisher was something of a drinker.
Frustrated by inactivity, Winterman strode to the rear of the building, unlocking and unbolting the back door, and made his way out into a small courtyard. It was a place where they stored the rubbish bins and, it seemed, any other junk discarded from the offices. He assumed Mrs Sheringham had chosen not to extend her domain out here. It had a chaotic untidy air not evident in the interior of the building, although the worst of the mess was concealed beneath the drifted snow.
Winterman had told Mrs Sheringham he needed a breath of air. In truth, he needed a cigarette. He wasn't sure whether she allowed smoking in the building, but no one else appeared to have had the courage to light up.
His earlier foreboding about the weather had proved correct. The snow was falling again, as heavily as before. He tucked himself into a corner by the door and lit a cigarette, sheltering the flame from the chill east wind. Even the cigarettes were shoddy these days, the tobacco adulterated with something even less palatable. He had heard on the wireless some government spokesman recommending that you should smoke it down to the last drag. 'It might even be good for your health!' the man had added in that over-bright voice politicians used to patronise the man in the street. As if, Winterman thought, any of us cared about living longer.
God, this country was in a mess. Not at all what most people had envisaged, a year or so ago. Winterman barely remembered VE night. He'd still been in London, charged with tidying up the endless array of loose ends his superiors couldn't be bothered with. He'd been in no state to enjoy the celebrations taking place around him. He recalled walking through the West End late in the evening, impelled by a sense of duty and vague curiosity. People were gathered in Trafalgar Square, milling about as if they couldn't remember what they were doing there. Some idiot playing endlessly on a trumpet, a jazz tune. A few amiable drunks.
Even then – and even allowing for Winterman's own jaundiced outlook – it felt like an anticlimax. As if all the energy, the tension, of those extraordinary six years had been dissipated, and no one quite knew what to do next.
Election night had been something else again. He was regaining some equilibrium by then, getting his life back in order. He was weeks away from formal demobilisation – not that it was clear he'd ever been formally mobilised in the first place – and was stuck in a dusty Holborn office working out his last days, not much to do, finally beginning to think about what might be coming next. At a loose end, he'd accepted a request from a friend to help out with the election campaign for one of the London Labour candidates, an enthusiastic youngster with no serious expectation of success.
The candidate had invited his campaign workers to a post-poll party in a down-at-heel pub off Fitzroy Street. Somehow – Winterman couldn't recall the details – they'd moved on from there to the party at Transport House, realising by then that, not only were they going to win, but that it would be a landslide. It was more than they had ever envisaged, more than they dared dream
of. He had a memory of seeing Attlee in the middle of that mêlée, blank-faced and bemused, the expression of an understudy drafted at the last minute into the leading role.
At dawn, hung over, exhausted, he had returned to his shabby flat, half-believing he had dreamed the victory. Hours later, having slept through the day, he woke wondering why it had mattered to him so much. He was no political animal. He had no real faith in politicians of any persuasion. He had no conviction this was a new socialist dawn. It was just another government. They'd bumble along, perhaps take some positive steps, certainly make mistakes. In the end they'd betray anyone who had any real faith in them.
And this bunch, whatever their good intentions, had nothing going for them. The country was on its last legs, bankrupt, already having to go cap in hand to the unsympathetic Americans. No food in the shops. No coal in the furnaces. No thanks for whatever we might have done over the last six years. And now this – even the elements themselves conspiring to squeeze out whatever last shred of resource and energy might remain.
'Penny for them.'
Winterman turned. Hoxton, hands in pockets, was slouched against the doorframe.
'I don't think they're worth that much. I was just watching the snow.'
'It's a bugger right enough. Last thing we need.'
'I'm surprised to see you in,' Winterman said. 'Don't imagine any of the roads are clear yet.'
Hoxton shrugged. 'Committed, that's me. Wouldn't catch me risking a day's pay for a bit of snow. Got on my bike – bit treacherous, but not too bad in the end. Don't think we'll see Marshy today though.'
Winterman smiled. 'Lives further away, does he?'
'Five minutes' walk. But always glad of a lie in, Marshy.' Hoxton moved to stand next to Winterman at the door. Winterman pulled out the packet of cigarettes and Hoxton plucked one out, looking grateful. 'Thanks. I was about out. Didn't fancy a trip to the shop.' He peered out at the swirling snow. 'Staying locally yourself then?'
'Not far,' Winterman agreed.
'But then you're something of a local man.' Hoxton fumbled with a box of matches, lighting the cigarette.
Winterman raised an eyebrow. 'Why do you say that?'
Hoxton took a deep drag on the cigarette, his eyes fixed on the snow-filled sky. 'I'm not necessarily the fastest runner in the field. But I usually get there in the end.'
'That doesn't surprise me.'
'Thought I recognised your face. Seen you around here, before the war. Someone told me your mam and dad lived round these parts. So I did a bit of checking. Asked around at HQ. You've got a reputation.'
'I imagine so.' Winterman had lit another cigarette. 'I take it you didn't speak to the chief constable.'
'Not directly, no. I was told he thought you were the bee's knees.'
'Once, maybe. Not now, I don't think.'
Hoxton looked as if he was about to say something, but then he moved silently to stand next to Winterman.
Both men stood for some minutes, unspeaking, gazing out at the panorama of grey and white, the imperceptible accretions of snow on the piled drifts.
'Bleedin' cold,' Hoxton said at last. 'Has been for weeks.'
'They reckon there'll be fuel shortages. Factory closures. More powercuts. That's what they said on the wireless this morning.'
'Just as well we're living in the land of bleeding plenty then, isn't it?' Hoxton sounded more jovial than bitter. 'They had some stories about you, I'll tell you that for nothing.'
'Largely apocryphal, I imagine.' Winterman blew a perfect smoke ring. It was immediately whipped away by the bitter east wind.
'I'll take your word for it. Given as I've no idea what that means. But then they said you were educated.'
''Fraid so,' Winterman acknowledged. 'For what it's worth.'
'Bugger all, in my experience. With all due respect, sir.'
Winterman laughed. 'I'll have to earn your respect in other ways then, Hoxton.' He took a step forward, his polished shoes crunching into the snow, flakes gathering on his shoulders.
'I've no doubt you will, sir,' Hoxton said, sounding sincere enough. 'They seemed to hold you in pretty high regard at HQ. Some of them anyway.'
Winterman turned and looked at him, his expression one of genuine surprise. 'You think so? There's a turn up for the books.'
'Yeah. Bright boy. Hard working. Committed to the cause. Never gives up. All that.' Hoxton tossed his cigarette stub casually out into the snow.
'So what went wrong? That's what you're going to ask.'
'You mean, how did you end up in a deadbeat dump like this, working with the likes of me? None of my business. But, anyway, they told me.'
'Did they? What did they tell you?'
'Breakdown,' Hoxton said. 'Nerves, I suppose. All got a bit too much for you. These things happen. Nothing to be ashamed of.'
'No. Nothing to be ashamed of.' Winterman laughed, then flicked his own cigarette end elegantly out into the gathering snow. 'They tell you much about this breakdown?'
'Like I say, none of my business.'
'Who knows?' Winterman was smiling, apparently good naturedly. 'You ought to be forewarned. So you can keep an eye out for any odd behaviour.'
Hoxton stepped out beside him into the snow. A white dusting had already gathered on Winterman's hair and shoulders. 'You're a local man, guv. I'd say odd behaviour goes with the territory.'
'You reckon so?'
'I reckon so. Mad as bloody hatters. It's what comes from living in the back of beyond.' Hoxton shook his head. 'Look at this lot. Dead kiddies' bodies appearing out of nowhere. A pissed old padre casting himself out in the snow. What a place.'
'So that's what you think it is then? Madness. The children, I mean. Not the pissed old padre. Given some of the things we've seen in the last year or two, that's probably the only sane response for a man of god.'
Hoxton regarded him for a moment, as if about to take issue with Winterman's words. 'It makes no sense to me,' he said at last, and for a moment Winterman wondered whether Hoxton was about to engage in a theological debate. 'I mean, who are these kiddies? In a place like this, people notice if a cat goes missing, let alone a child.'
'Maybe they did,' Winterman pointed out. 'Those deaths go back a few years. We'll need to track through all the missing persons.'
'Not local though.'
'Maybe not. It depends what you mean by local. It's not like it was. Even round here, people are a lot more mobile.'
'Aye, and there are a lot more strangers. People coming and going. Bloody incomers. Even the bloody Yanks. Those kiddies could have come from anywhere.'
Winterman looked up at the heavy grey sky, still thick with swirling snow. 'What's the forecast?'
'More of the same.'
'And how long before they get the roads cleared?'
'Weeks, I should think. The only good news is there aren't many roads out here. Once the snow ploughs get going, they should get the main routes cleared pretty quickly.'
'Including the road to Framley?'
'Including the road to Framley.'
'Can we get them to give that one some priority? Can someone speak to the council?'
Hoxton smiled. 'I think you'll find Mrs Sheringham is already onto that one.'
'That's something then. We can get a team out there to recover that second body, and find out what happened to your pissed old padre. When do you reckon? Sometime today?'
'With a bit of luck. Though we haven't had too much of that so far.' Hoxton shook the gathering snow from his shoulders. 'I'm going in, guv. You can stay out here to build a snowman if you like.'
'Maybe I will. We could all do with a bit of cheering up. Find a scarf, a carrot, couple of bits of coal.'
'You'll be lucky to find any coal.' Hoxton stopped and glanced over his shoulder. 'You know what I reckon?'
'What?'
'I reckon a week or two of this place will really drive you doolally. If I were you, I'd forget this place and bugger off back to whatever yo
u were up to in London.'
Winterman brushed the snow from his hair, gazing impassively at Hoxton. 'You're quite right,' he said finally. 'You may not be fast, but you do get there in the end.'
Chapter 20
Mary had woken early, around six. Sometimes, even at this time, her mother was already up and about, clattering through the washing up in the kitchen. But the house was silent – the distinctive deadening of a landscape thick with snow.
Mary lay staring at the ceiling, aware of how fitfully she had slept. She had never seen herself as the nervous type but those human remains, those tiny bones, had haunted her dreams. The dreams themselves had vanished, shredded by the pale morning light, but she was left with half-memories, fading imprints on her mind's eye. A child's eyes, blue and shining. A child's hand reaching out in the expectation of comfort. Dredging up memories Mary would rather have left buried.
She dragged herself from the double bed, pushing back the heavy quilt and eiderdown. It was still freezing cold in the room. It seemed to have been freezing cold for weeks.
She dressed hurriedly, pausing briefly to consider whether she should put on her office clothes. But she knew she would be staying home. Her mother needed her. Nobody would be expecting her at work and the buses were unlikely to be running. In the end, she dressed in some old slacks and a heavy jumper, utility clothing she had kept for years.
Downstairs, the cold was even more intense. There was no sign of her mother or the children. All still in bed, the most sensible place to be. She busied herself lighting a fire in the sitting room grate, trying to get some warmth into the place. The stock of coal – the thin dusty stuff that had become the norm since the war – was getting low. There was already talk of coal shortages.
She finally got the fire going, and pushed herself to her feet, feeling a weariness in her bones. Years of this. Years more trying to make ends meet. Years of trying to cope. For her and everyone.