The Snow Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  I sense, rather than see, the falling snow thickening outside. It must be a change in the light. My shoulder aches from earlier, and I massage it with the other arm. I might as well have one of those burgers while I wait. It could be my last meal. I place my food on a tray and sit in my landlady’s old chair and recall my last act of violence.

  A fresh breeze had brought evil weather from the north. The forecast dry night disappeared with darkening clouds. It proved an ill wind for Hardy, the final man who murdered my family.

  Earlier that day, my landlady had received sad news. After a spell of weakness, they explained, her heart was failing. We had a strange relationship – polite and respectful, but distant and quiet. She spent most of her time in the kitchen, often staring out of the window with a glass of sherry, while I read in the lounge.

  I had seen little of her of late and a nurse had visited. The nurse called for me to visit my landlady’s room and gave me a gentle smile. She was a short, slim creature, much like myself. We both had the same way of smiling with one side of our mouths raised as if life couldn’t allow us complete joy.

  I edged into the room expecting the stench of death, but I smelled flowers. I saw none so assumed it was chemical. The nurse perched on the bed and held her hand and my landlady coughed to clear her throat.

  ‘Ronnie. Thank you for coming.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’m old and ill. All my happiness is behind me. My path on this earth contains only loneliness and pain. There’s only one thing I want.’

  She peered at me over dirty spectacles. I sensed it was no small thing she was preparing to ask. But for some reason, I knew that whatever she requested, I would agree to. I nodded for her to continue.

  ‘I want to die at home.’

  I glanced at the nurse and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Community nurses like me and doctors can visit, but she will need someone present throughout the night at least.’

  I smiled at her and stared dispassionately at the old woman. She’d hardly made me feel welcome. There had been no pleasant meals together or an offer to take me into the city. We’d lived around one another, not with each other.

  ‘Will your family be helping?’ I asked.

  She laughed with a childish titter I’d never heard before, even when she giggled at the strange shows she listened to on the radio. After wiping the dribble from her chin, she explained.

  ‘Three of my children didn’t reach adulthood, and my other sons moved to Canada. Have you seen any visitors?’

  I considered making her beg, and then immediately cringed at my cruelty. Had killing people damaged me? Besides, she looked as ill as Ronnie did when he died.

  ‘Okay.’

  Maybe that was why I said yes. It wouldn’t be a long promise. The nurse left but my landlady and I smiled at each other until her eyelids drooped and closed.

  I took Angel out that night to think about things. When I stepped from my house, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The owner of the property opposite came out at the same time. He was one of the policemen who questioned me at the hospital after the shooting. Many men wore hats in the sixties; he tipped his and stared right through me.

  When I recovered my poise, I realised that in the hospital I’d have looked considerably younger, and a huge bandage had covered half of my face. At the time, he spoke fast, kept crossing his legs, and ignored my answers. He rarely held eye contact. I remembered his name – Inspector Griffin – because of the mythical winged creature with the body of a lion and the head and wings of an eagle. Like his namesake, Griffin’s cruel glint framed a pointed beak.

  I followed him at a distance. He strolled straight down Oundle Road towards The Boy’s Head. When he was almost there, Hardy walked into my line of vision. He also headed towards The Boy’s Head. Hardy had vanished after the demise of his second friend, I’d presumed for good, but instead he must have been busy eating at home because he waddled across the field that separated his house from the pub.

  His sly, wary expression slackened with relief when he recognised me from the paper shop. He said nothing though. Inspector Griffin held the pub door open for him. They nodded to each other jovially as the first proper flakes fell.

  Returning to my house, I gave Angel a bone the butcher had kept for me, and put on my white coat. My life had been on hold. I could see that now. The finale beckoned, and then I could move on. I grabbed the items I needed, drove the van to the edge of the field near the pub, and waited.

  The flakes, little more than sleet, stroked my face that night, yet the cold seeped into my bones. My teeth chattered. A grim evening like that prevented most from venturing out and it kept Hardy inside the pub until closing time. On leaving, he checked the road both ways for non-existent traffic and pulled up his collar. He stopped at the snowy field and contemplated going around it on the path. I let myself out of the van as he chanced it.

  With normal shoes on, he shortened his steps to prevent himself slipping. His head jerked up when my door slammed. My walking boots cut through the slush with ease, and I strode towards him. He knew he couldn’t run. If he had a weapon, he didn’t grab it.

  I stopped a metre away with Laurel’s gun pointed at him. He actually smiled. I kept my other hand behind my back. Hammers make nice surprises.

  ‘It was you all along. You sent those cards.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Back then, I read that you hadn’t died. I thought you’d want revenge, but the others laughed. What could a kid do?’

  ‘Kids grow up. Keep walking.’

  I followed him towards his house until the heavy sleet blocked the sight of the paths and roads. A blurry pair of headlights blinked in the distance and disappeared from view. We were alone. The street lights failed to master the pervading gloom.

  ‘Is this it? Are you planning to kill me? Leave me in the snow like an animal?’

  ‘I have questions, then we’ll see.’

  He nodded. I couldn’t tell if sweat or melting sleet trickled from under the trilby hat above his fat face. His breath came in short gasps. Up close, I understood why he scared people. He must have weighed three times what I did even though we were a similar height.

  ‘Did you tell the police about the notes I sent?’

  ‘No. Goof said to destroy them. He reckoned they’d link us to the other deaths.’

  ‘I think you mean the other murders, not deaths. What kind of sick monster shoots children?’

  ‘We couldn’t risk anyone talking.’

  ‘My sister was deaf and dumb. She couldn’t speak even if she wanted to.’

  ‘How could we have known that?’ I noted the distance between us close slightly.

  ‘The others said you made the decision.’

  He took the chance and lunged for me. I stepped back as he slipped to his knees and grasped at thin air. I checked around at an empty night and brought the hammer down. His meaty forearm jerked up, staying the painful blow, and he howled into the dark. I swung harder. The second strike broke a bone in the same arm. He glared up at me with defiance. His mouth twisted into a cold sneer. Even at the end, his need to hurt won out. He spat his final words towards me.

  ‘Your father was a hitman. He killed whoever they told him to. Men, women, children. Then he made a mistake and stole from the wrong people. You all had to die. Blame him.’

  I swung my weapon in a huge furious arc; the blunt point hammering down onto the crown of his head as he bellowed, ‘The Colonel ordered me to do it.’

  Too little, too late. The metal thudded through the thin fabric of his hat and crunched into his forehead. He keeled over with a resounding whoosh of breath and remained silent. The wind and snow strengthened as I checked his pulse. It seemed there were others guilty, but I didn’t know or care who the Colonel was. I was finished. These men killed my family; I saw them do it. I had settled the score.

  I think if I hadn’t seen Hardy that evening, the events afterwards migh
t have made me forget about pursuing him. Still, you get the luck you deserve. That’s always been the way for everyone but the innocent.

  I decided to choose life from then on, not death. To my detriment, I suspected I might miss what I’d become. Was it the power I would yearn for? Perhaps it would be the blood in the snow? I read the news afterwards. They called my work assassinations. The police released a note that Hardy tucked behind a mirror in his house.

  Fear the north wind. Because no one will hear you scream.

  A city quaked during the next winter storm. They feared the Snow Killer. But I had retired.

  10

  DI Barton

  Barton persuaded Zander to go for a game of ten-pin bowling, and then a bar snack at a local pub once he’d messaged Holly to say all was fine. Zander seemed in reasonable form when he left him afterwards, and wanted to have a nap before his overtime night shift. The two of them had had a good laugh at the people staring at two such large men in Holly’s little car. Zander kept waving at pedestrians, especially kids, and the tension in Barton’s shoulders eased.

  Barton knew part of the enjoyment he got from the job was that it made him feel alive. Awful things happened daily to ordinary lives and he helped with the fallout. It also made him thankful for everything he had. Perhaps that was why he didn’t worry too much about the strain on his belt buckle. What was being a bit chubby compared to losing a child? Seeing his happy, healthy family tonight would be a pleasure and a relief.

  Even though he wasn’t on duty, he drove past the police station on his way home and couldn’t resist dropping into work. Thorpe Wood station depressed everyone. Squat brown buildings failed to inspire, although the authorities paid lip service to complaints by regularly painting the hand railings light-blue. He nodded at a few faces he knew and proceeded to the detectives’ office.

  As it was a Saturday, only Detective Constable Alan Rodgers, an uninspiring constable with the nickname of Ginger, sat at his desk. He did have red hair, but his moniker came from the fact he had an unusual walk, almost a dance. Hence, Ginger Rodgers. He had joined the department when Barton had, but lacked the same ambition. Ginger scrambled something out of sight as his boss approached. ‘Afternoon, Guv.’

  Barton nodded at him. They all knew the lazy git wasted half an hour a day doing the Daily Mail crossword. Nice work on overtime. Still, he took his nickname with good grace. You wouldn’t get away with that sort of thing with new recruits. Many a time Barton opened his mouth to make a joke and stifled it. Careers ended with throwaway comments these days.

  He missed the simplicity of his earlier career. Nostalgic was never a word he’d thought he would use to describe himself, but lately he daydreamed about the past. He acknowledged they weren’t the good old days. It’d been madness at times. There was also a fine line between banter and bullying. Modern policing was considerably more efficient, although modern complicated crime took more man hours.

  Ginger offered to make him a coffee, which he accepted. Barton smiled fondly at the Nespresso machine resting on a cabinet. They’d bought it from a small lottery win, and it had been great to start with. It must be responsible for at least one of his love handles. Turned out the pod things were expensive, so few replaced them. Instant Nescafé would do as he logged onto a computer and scanned his emails. Deleting most, he only read the full details of one; a nasty rape.

  DI Sarah Cox had been allocated the case. She had also applied for the next Chief Inspector position and, sadly, Barton had to acknowledge that she was the favourite. Time flew as it often did when he tackled his inbox, but he left happy that he wouldn’t face an avalanche of correspondence when he returned on Monday.

  At 20:00, Barton drove home. So much for a day off. The snow wafted down, settling on all but the busiest roads. The forecast was right for once. He stepped from the car. It wasn’t a night to be out and about.

  Holly gave him an exhausted look when he found her with a glass of wine in the kitchen. ‘Thanks for texting me earlier. I’m glad Zander’s okay. We should get him over for tea soon. Let me guess. You popped into the office?’

  He held his hands up, crossed the room, and kissed the top of her head. Due to the big difference in height between them, he did that often as he’d have to lift her to kiss her on the mouth.

  ‘Sorry. I’m back now. I’ll ring for a takeaway if you like?’

  ‘Come on, John. That’s not going to do us any favours. Let’s just have a few drinks and that veggie pizza I bought. We’ll feel better for it in the morning as opposed to gorging on a Chinese.’

  Barton took a cold bottle of Becks from her hand and prised the lid off with the opener.

  ‘Shall I put the baby to bed?’ he said.

  She delivered a remonstrating glance. ‘All done. Luke actually asked if it was night-time. Layla’s ready too. She wants me to read to her.’

  They shared a look. Both knew it wouldn’t be long before her bedroom became a no-go zone. Well, definitely for him at least. He took another beer from the fridge.

  ‘Don’t have too many of those—I’ve bought some racy new underwear.’

  ‘Excellent, mine are getting a little frayed. Do you still know my size?’

  ‘Yuck!’

  They turned in unison to see Lawrence behind them looking as though he’d caught his stepfather sucking his mother’s toes.

  He wore a thick hoodie with the hood up, gloves, and a disgusted sneer. Dressed like that, he was tall enough to pass for an adult.

  ‘That’s horrible to hear. Keep your paws off my mum.’

  ‘Surely you aren’t going out?’ asked Holly.

  ‘Yep, I’m meeting a friend.’

  ‘Which friend?’ probed Barton.

  ‘What’s with the heavy-handed police interrogation? Am I under arrest?’

  With a cheeky frown at Barton, Lawrence kissed his mother, and just before he slammed the front door a few seconds later, Barton shouted out, ‘Be careful and be back by ten.’

  ‘My, what has got into that boy?’ Holly commented.

  ‘Hormones. A lot of lads go through a rebellious stage at fourteen. Maybe I should take him down the cells, whack him around for a while. Straighten him out.’

  That grabbed her attention. The one unbreakable rule in her house was that no one hit the children. It was what had caused the end of her relationship with Lawrence’s father. She enjoyed a joke though and loved to be teased. Her reply was her all over, delivered in her best New York drawl. ‘You touch him, and I touch you.’

  ‘Oh yeah? I got some place needs touching.’ His accent wasn’t as good.

  ‘What’s in it for me?’

  ‘Afterwards I’ll fall asleep. My snoring is like whale song. Very peaceful.’

  Holly laughed loudly. ‘That’s not the word I would use.’

  A few minutes later, the girls left him alone in the lounge. He started a movie and pulled the lever to recline his armchair. He pressed the off button on his phone but then he remembered the scary call from Zander earlier. Missing one of those was not a risk worth taking.

  Barton thought back to the last time Holly and he had sex. There had been around seven seconds of action one morning four weeks back until Luke came in demanding his breakfast. Perhaps that was what coitus interruptus meant.

  With that in mind, he decided to keep his phone silent for an hour or two. He’d turn it back on after he’d seen the new lingerie on display.

  11

  The Snow Killer

  It’s nearly ten at night. I pull back the lounge curtains. In the window’s reflection, I can just make out my pupils dilating at the thick covering of snow. The wind whips the swirling flakes. I can’t see the end of my front garden due to the flurries. Perfect. I’ll take it as a sign I’m doing the right thing.

  My oversized white parka is waiting on the bannister. I slide a weapon into each side pocket. The scarf fits snugly around my neck, covering my face from the nose down. I bought a thin ski beanie recently, so
I could wear it and pull the hood up at the same time. That’s going to be handy because it’s a chilly evening. In the mirror, I’m just a pair of rheumy eyes.

  Having lived in this quiet cul-de-sac most of my life, I know there’s rarely anyone about at night in the winter. In fact, it’s unusual to see anyone whatever time of year it is except in the safety of their cars.

  I’m still in the same dormer bungalow in Orton Longueville that the landlady left me after she died. I wondered why she didn’t leave it to her two sons in Canada, but it became clearer when they failed to attend the funeral. Caring for her in those last days saved me. I found a quality I never knew I had. She stubbornly hung on and took nearly three months to die so I quit the newsagent’s and assumed the role of full-time carer. Thinking back, maybe I wanted the chance to look after someone. After all, I had failed Special and should have done more.

  The community nurse and I became friendly, even lovers for a while but it wasn’t to be. Her history was more traumatic than mine in some ways, and we never allowed each other to get close.

  In the end, watching a person die naturally was more harrowing than observing a violent death. For weeks, continuous pain wracked her body and many a time I considered offering my services. Eventually, a more peaceful stage arrived. She slept a lot, or perhaps she had lost consciousness as she was non-responsive. The nurse recommended I talk to her, so I described my upbringing. I left nothing out. I think she listened and didn’t judge.

  The experience became cathartic for me. I felt that the circle was complete, and I could move on with my life. After she’d gone, I knew I didn’t want to be around death any more, of any type.

  College and finishing my education tempted me into training as an accountant and so I spent fifty years at peace in numbers and enjoyed the shallowness of work relationships. My office contained enough company to keep me sane, but I’m happiest on my own. I last used my gun when Angel’s health failed. She was seventeen, and it was time. I decided I should be the one to do it. Her plot is at the corner of the garden and gives me comfort.