The Snow Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  ‘It’s possible. Are you going there now? Stay out in this too long and it would be suicide. We’ll come with you. We aren’t doing any good sitting here. It’ll only take a few minutes, and if she’s there, you’ll have back up.’

  ‘Okay, do you want to let Control know?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. The radio isn’t working, but my mobile’s fine.’

  Al pulled out of the carport and crawled down the street. At points, the car slid around as though they were driving on a frozen river. Jules rang Control and said he’d call in fifteen minutes with an update. Barton remembered DS Strange and DC Rodgers were on call tonight. He sent them both a text to say he was en route to Orton Longueville church after an idea and that he’d keep them posted.

  The guys in the front didn’t seem worried about the almost featureless landscape. Barton noticed a light on at the Colonel’s and the door swinging in the breeze, but heavy snow had begun to fall once more. Al distracted him by putting the sirens on.

  ‘Best to let her know we’re coming this time,’ he said. ‘If she’s caught exposed, she might shoot first.’

  Barton directed them to a place to park at the front of the church. The men marched to the boot of their vehicle to get their weapons while Barton walked to the gate and peered over it. The stone tower shimmered in and out of view a hundred metres away. The walls appeared to be a mass of twirling steam with the lights shining on them, as if they were smoking. He scanned the graveyard for signs of life. Suddenly, a figure came out of nowhere pointing a gun. He stepped back from the gate, but she was already leaning against it and targeted his chest.

  ‘Freeze, Inspector Barton. If you’ll pardon the pun.’

  71

  DI Barton

  Barton’s eyes fixed on the pistol. Dark liquid dripped from the handle. He glanced up into the pale face of a well-kept pensioner. She even wore a touch of bright red lipstick. She’d been wearing that the time he had nearly run her over. He recalled she was wearing a white coat. Celine had tried to talk as she died. He’d thought she was saying hold, but did she mean old?

  Calm eyes returned his look. He didn’t know what to do. This woman had seen her family killed. Who could predict her mental state? She was the Snow Killer. One mistake and he’d die on this frozen ground.

  He heard the sounds of rifles being loaded behind him. He put his hands up and shouted over to the two men. ‘Don’t shoot. We’re talking.’ He turned back and watched her finger move onto the trigger.

  ‘I’m talking,’ she said. ‘You’re listening. I’m sure you have the background story of the Snow Killer by now. The press will receive a letter upon my death. There were things I didn’t know though. I only discovered some information today. When I avenged my family all those years ago, the final victim mentioned that his boss had ordered the hit. A man they called the Colonel.’

  Barton shuddered, and it wasn’t through the cold. A thin voice echoed through the graves. ‘Help me. I’m here.’

  She scowled. ‘There will be no saving him.’

  ‘Come on, Veronica. There’s been too much killing.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘From what I’ve learned today, perhaps there hasn’t been enough. This chapter needs closing. Captains, Majors, Colonels, wall-to-wall corruption, you police couldn’t catch a cold, even in this weather.’

  Barton realised he risked provoking her but decided to try to talk her down nonetheless.

  ‘Some of those people you killed were innocent.’

  A tear trickled from her right eye. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and sighed. A sad smile flickered on her face.

  ‘Perhaps. I’m trying to close the circle, but maybe I’m just making a new one.’

  ‘Why did you kill Brick and Terry?’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me Terry was innocent? He had a record like a screenplay.’

  ‘Okay, perhaps. Brick, though, was only a labourer. He led a simple life. There was no malice in him at all, and certainly no criminal record.’

  ‘He dated a known drug dealer.’ Veronica’s voice crackled.

  ‘We thought so, too. Celine had been involved in crime when she was younger but went straight years ago. We were wrong about her as well. We’ve been picking her up and trying to charge her for stuff she knew nothing about. She’d turned her life around. Brick met her after that. She was just an attractive, successful businesswoman to him.’

  Her head dropped and he pressed his advantage, urging her. ‘Let him go. No one else needs to die, least of all you. We can get you the help you need. I know you’re also a victim in this.’

  He thought for a moment she would hand him the gun. An icy blast whipped her words away.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, nice try. Everything comes back to my parents’ deaths. People who kill don’t get leniency. The Colonel will die tonight; so will I. Unless you’d prefer me to escape? Then you could use my name to scare children. This time it would be a bogeywoman. Has there ever been a purer wind than the one blowing through this city? And no, I won’t surrender. Why would I? I’d spend the rest of my days rotting in a cell, surrounded by the types I want to rid the world of. Perhaps this was what I was born to do. I spent fifty years treading water. Only now, when I’m dying, do I feel alive.’

  ‘Have mercy, Veronica.’

  ‘The time for forgiveness has passed.’

  Barton realised that the young girl, the victim, from all that time ago had gone. This woman needed locking away before she decided someone else deserved her form of justice. He focused on the pistol, only noticing then that it was pointing towards his chin. Seconds drew out as flint eyes bored into his. A laughing Baby Luke was who he thought of as she pulled the trigger and the hammer hit home.

  72

  The Snow Killer

  I can feel the snipers aim on my forehead like a laser beam. I drop behind the gate and scuttle away bent double. My back itches as I wait for a bullet to tear through it. I contemplate returning to the Colonel, but I’m out of ammunition. Those men will kill me, given the chance. They know I’m dangerous but won’t consider me a difficult target. What’s an old woman with an empty pistol and a Stanley knife going to do against armed policemen with rifles?

  They underestimate me. These are my streets. I’ve been laying flowers in this churchyard for half a century. Every blade of grass, divot, headstone and hiding place is etched into my being. I recall the hole out the back to escape through. I could run now, but the Colonel doesn’t deserve to dodge his sentence.

  A strange fizz echoes through the gloom and the floodlights die. Then the lights in the church are gone. The wind howls in defiance, too. The tomb that I want is right at the rear. I dodge between the graves and with horror realise that the stone panel has slipped off and is resting on the floor. I ram my hand into the black space and thank the God who deserted me for this last piece of luck. The rifle slides out. I check the magazine: three bullets. There’s no margin for error.

  73

  DI Barton

  Al and Jules surround the kneeling Barton.

  ‘Are you all right, John?’ asked Jules.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I thought she shot you,’ said Al.

  ‘She did. It wasn’t loaded.’

  ‘Could it have been a dud bullet? Was the gun old?’

  ‘It looked ancient, but she knew. She smiled and said, “You get a second chance.” I can’t believe I pissed myself.’

  Despite the seeping chill, Barton’s face flushed red. Another begging cry for help carried to them on the wind.

  ‘Don’t worry about that. You won’t be the last. Only a madman would have done differently,’ said Al.

  Barton was too shocked to feel relief. Al’s comment registered, though. They’d been one step behind in this entire investigation. Not a single person had seriously considered a woman might be responsible, and an old one at that. He imagined his mother with a gun and shook his head. She’d probably be worse.


  ‘John, you still with us? We need to go in. There’s someone alive in there. Ring Control and update them. Bring everyone here.’

  ‘The man in there will be the Colonel. But he’s already dead.’

  A faint cry sounded to contradict his words, but they both knew what he meant.

  ‘John, we’re trained marksmen. She won’t get away,’ said Al.

  Barton stood and pulled his phone from his trousers. They’d underestimated Veronica Smith from the beginning. She’d killed at least six people in a variety of different ways. He stared at the backs of Al and Jules as they moved into the churchyard with their weapons raised. Al put out a flat palm gesture to stop Jules. Al cupped his ear. Barton couldn’t hear anything as another blast of dry snow stung his head. Using two fingers, Al directed Jules to the left and weaved to the right himself.

  Barton watched their tactics, but he finally understood that they were the hunted. She’d stabbed men in the back in the exact place to incapacitate them, shot Brick from a distance only to wound, and blasted Celine in the side so she died slowly with no hope of survival. She was black hearted for sure, but someone had taught her to kill.

  He screamed, ‘Be careful. She’s more dangerous than you think.’

  Too late. The men had faded into the mist.

  74

  The Snow Killer

  The snow has stopped, and I can make out two dark figures in bulletproof vests as they separate. My white coat gives me an advantage. As I hide behind a horse chestnut tree, I realise that I’m no better than those I kill. Hopefully, all this evil will die with me. First, the police need teaching a lesson. No one can save the Colonel.

  A line of dense, stunted trees sits along the edge of the graveyard. They have a gap behind them where a small person such as me can creep out of sight. They’ll head to the Colonel, so I will need my eyes on him. It’s quiet as I crawl through the dead leaves. I have the rifle in the cradle of my arms, just as Uncle Ronnie taught me. There’s a hole in the foliage up ahead, and it’s perfect. I settle into position.

  The Colonel is as still and white as the surrounding statues. The first man comes into view on my left about forty metres away. He stops and takes cover at a large stone with a cherub draped over the top. Mrs Brown’s daughter, Daisy, if I recall. Died, aged three, of diphtheria in 1969. He pauses then assumes the position and crawling style that I did. He pulls himself towards the Colonel.

  The other guy rises next to a plinth with a weeping, winged angel leaning over the dead. Mrs Crane’s only son, Tommy, stillborn in 1974. I remember Mr Crane coming once a week for thirty years, always alone. This second, younger man is more eager, less cautious, and, with a last look around, he sprints towards the prone Colonel. As he puts his hand on the Colonel’s neck, I squeeze the trigger and shoot the policeman in the hip just under his vest.

  He cries out then immediately silences himself. I hoped the wind would hide my direction, but the branches above me splinter with the impact of bullets. Semi-automatic fire sprays my position. The Virgin Mary, leaning over the grave of Stella Draper who went to sleep in 1985, shatters, blasting stone powder into the atmosphere. I frantically shuffle away as quickly as I can. The initial adrenalin that had kept me going is depleted. My right leg is numb, and the arm on that side trembles. Another volley of shots hits the wall where I hid seconds ago, although it’s too random to have been from someone who knows where I am.

  I sneak out of my cover, edge around the side of the war memorial, and arc back so I’ll be directly behind the more alert shooter. I lean against the headstone of Corporal Craddock, who gave his life for our future, aged eighteen, at Dunkirk, and stare through the sights. My target gestures to his injured partner. He crawls forward on all fours. I pause my breathing and pull the trigger. The bullet enters his right buttock, rewarding me with a howl. He turns and I aim again. Everyone seems very young to me. I watch his life flash before him and raise my head from the sight.

  I don’t need to offer twice. He drags himself along on his non-injured side towards his colleague. With a brief desperate glance at my position, he pulls the other man and himself out of view. That leaves the Colonel, who lies on his back with his head resting on a granite kerb. He stares at me. Sirens blare nearby.

  I waste the remaining round in the Colonel’s throat because he doesn’t move. The snow killed him and that is right. Moving as fast as I’m able, I skirt away from where I imagine the policemen to be and limp towards the gap in the fence at the back that my dog found all those years ago. It’s still there, but the bramble almost beats me. I discard the useless rifle and head for my final task.

  75

  DI Barton

  Barton listened to the approaching sirens. The last five minutes had dragged out like torture. He’d flinched at each gunshot. There were clearly two types of weapon being fired. A lighter gun and the heavier sound of the AR15, which he recognised from firing one himself at a range. He’d also caught cries of pain from deep voices. It was quiet now. He held his head in his hands. The final report came from the quieter weapon.

  The wind had dropped dramatically, almost as if events were over. Tiny flakes of snow fell again as a staggering Jules dragged Al’s body out towards the main path. Barton couldn’t stop himself. He ran forward, crouched, and, with a silent roar, picked Al up like a sleeping child. He staggered from the churchyard and returned for Jules. Jules hobbled out with support, gasping with pain.

  When Barton helped him to the ground, he grabbed Barton’s collar.

  ‘She’s armed, small calibre rifle. She’s fucking deadly, man. Don’t go in there. Do not go in there.’

  ‘Calm down, you’re okay.’

  ‘I lost it, John. It was complete panic. I sprayed bullets everywhere like a novice.’

  ‘What about the Colonel?’

  ‘He’s gone.’ Jules shuddered. He attempted to control his breathing. ‘She could easily have killed us all.’

  Barton examined the wounds. They looked painful but not life threatening. The bullets were still in Al’s hip and Jules’ arse. Barton’s trousers remained wet.

  The other Armed Response Vehicle arrived first, then DS Strange and DC Rodgers. Further approaching sirens filled the night. The Tactical Firearms Unit was on its way back and no one was allowed anywhere near the churchyard.

  Barton hunched over and held his head.

  ‘Let’s take you home,’ said Ginger.

  He didn’t want to go, but he had nothing left. They stopped outside his house.

  ‘Thanks, guys,’ he managed as he attempted to push the car door open.

  Ginger got out and opened it for him.

  ‘How did you know she’d be at the church?’

  Barton gave him a weary smile. ‘I asked Griffin down the road where she might be. He said she often went there and left flowers on the graves, so we guessed her family were there and that was where she might be heading.’

  ‘Clever. Shall we pop down and see if he has any other ideas?’

  ‘I suppose it can’t hurt. Veronica’s probably still holed up in the graveyard. His house is number nineteen. If she turns up, do not engage her. Just drive away and come here.’ Before he slammed the door, he added, ‘Make sure you go around the back as he won’t answer the doorbell.’

  76

  The Snow Killer

  I lurch through the woods at the back of the church. A gentle flurry blinds me with ice-white particles as I step into the open and head towards the green near to the BMX track. A dog with a flashing lead bounces around at the copse where the bricklayer died. It’s hard to comprehend what I’ve just done. When did I decide that shooting the police was okay? I’ve changed. It’s almost time to lie in the snow and retire.

  Instead, I fill my lungs and force myself onwards. A small lane links up to the road that Black Ermine Street is on, and I stagger along it. I stare at the Colonel’s house with the swinging front door. The streets are empty, as you’d expect on such a bitter night.
The clouds above have almost disappeared and a full moon gazes down on me. I need to return to my house to get Mr Griffin’s back-door key. My damaged front door makes me smile.

  I take a piece of paper and write a farewell note, just in case they don’t link everything up. Griffin’s part in all of this will not die with him. Who knows which stones may upturn? I pad across the road and go around the back.

  He’s in the kitchen when my key lets me in, peering into his garden. Yet again, there’s no surprise at a levelled pistol.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ I ask.

  He regards me with an open face. ‘No, get out.’

  ‘I am the child who survived the snow killings fifty years ago. I was responsible for the three men murdered in the snow near here, and it was me who killed today.’

  There’s still no response, so I continue. ‘I’ve just had a chat with the Colonel down the road. He told me some interesting things. I wondered why they arrested nobody for the murder of my family. It turns out you pulled the strings. When Goofy, or Goof as you called him, was killed, you were the investigating officer. You didn’t want those cases solved as it might have led back to you.’

  It’s weird how someone with Alzheimer’s can’t remember the present, yet the past can play like a soap opera they’re unable to stop. All the evidence leads to this worn-out man in a too big green jumper and battered slippers.

  ‘How dare you? I’m a decorated officer with a distinguished career.’