Murder In Midwinter

by Fleur Hitchcock

  I hear Mum and Dad locking up, Granddad coughing his way up to the attic.

  I pull back the bedroom curtain and look out on to the street again. Two figures stand in the shadows under the bridge. Is that unusual?

  A shiver goes down my spine.

  “Zahra?” I whisper. “You still awake?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Can we share?”

  “Yes.” And I clamber out of my bed and snuggle in alongside her. She feels much warmer than I do. We fold into each other, me behind, her in front, which means that I have a warm chest and she has a warm bum. She holds her funny old rabbit, the one Dad bought on the day she was born, so he’s warmest of all.

  “How are you?” she asks.

  “OK,” I lie.

  “You’re not, are you?”

  I lie there, feeling her warmth. It’s like cuddling a huge teddy bear. I don’t answer for a long time. I think about what I saw: a gun, a woman frightened and angry. The red-haired man. The camera flash. Them looking back at me. “If you want to know, I’m scared.”

  “You don’t need to be. You saw him but why would he have seen you?”

  “The camera flash. They looked up. He looked right at me.”

  “Oh!” she says, pulling me tighter.

  We lie there listening to the trains thundering over the railway bridge, the endless helicopters circling overhead.

  “Can I sing you our song?” she says, eventually. “For the Christmas concert?”

  * * *

  I go through school the next day feeling jangly, but everything’s really normal. We’re doing Romeo and Juliet and we’ve just got to the death bit. Half the class is in tears, the rest are balancing pencils on their noses.

  “So when Romeo sees Juliet, apparently dead—”

  A cascade of pencils hits the floor.

  Mr Nankivell pauses, and sighs. “What is it, Nathan?”

  “What time are we doing the Secret Santa – Sir? Only I’ve got football practice and I don’t want to be late.”

  “Just – let me get to the end – so Romeo says: ‘O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die’, priming the audience for…” Mr Nankivell stops and stares at Nathan who has slung his bag over his back and is trying to sneak out of the classroom unseen.

  There’s a pause. Nathan freezes. We all stare.

  Mr Nankivell sighs. “I give up,” he says, and thirty chairs scrape across the floor. The entire classroom stampedes past him and I see that Zahra’s making signs at me from the doorway. As I half stand to wave at her, the bell rings.

  “So what do you think?” she asks me, waving toxic purple fingernails under my nose.

  “Great,” I say. “Brilliant, are those allowed?”

  She ignores that. “And I’ve found sick yellow tights online. You know, that half shade between green and yellow, almost lime – and the shoes, you should see the shoes, Maya – well, you will see the shoes, they’re so cute.”

  “Good,” I say.

  “You don’t care, do you?” she says. “You’re still thinking about last night, aren’t you?”

  “What if he killed her?” I say, and she hugs me.

  * * *

  Later, I walk back home with her and together we veer on to the South Bank. We’re quickly caught in the bustle of people coming and going along the river, and like them, stop to stare at the coloured lights of the bridges and the Tate Modern warming up the freezing London dusk. A few leaves crunch under the thousands of feet and the smell of roasting nuts catches in my throat. The near horizon is a perfect pale green pierced by a single star, and the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral shows as a lit silhouette against it.

  “God, London’s beautiful,” says Zahra.

  “Yes,” I say. My mind is miles away, playing and replaying the scene from yesterday, all the way up to the police visit. The pictureless police visit.

  “When we get home I’m going to search the twins’ room,” I say.

  “Again?” she says.

  Throwing our school bags to the ground we sit on a bench by the Globe and watch a small crowd form against the river railings. They’re pointing at something below them, but I don’t care, I’m too unsettled.

  A man with a briefcase sits next to me and pulls out a newspaper.

  Zahra and I watch a police boat buzzing up the river towards us.

  The police boat is joined by another police boat. They’re still racing in our direction.

  A toddler lets go of a balloon and howls as it takes off into the indigo sky. Her mother laughs and drags her off along the pavement.

  The man leans forward to tie his shoelace.

  A siren goes off behind us and an ambulance pulls around on to the cobbles in front of the Globe, closely followed by a police car. We stay on our bench and watch the ambulance crew and the policemen struggle over the railings and disappear.

  “This looks too interesting – I’ve got to take a look,” says Zahra.

  Reluctantly, I leave the bench and follow her to the railings. The two police boats are tied up at the jetty. Below us, on the little beach, there are several people standing in a ring around something on the sand. There’s a man in a white cover-all suit, several policemen and a paramedic. They’re all staring down.

  “’S’a body,” says Zahra.

  I peer at the darkened shore. People with reflective strips on their clothes catch the light from mobile phone cameras and police torches.

  “My husband spotted it,” says a woman with pride.

  “Yes,” says her husband. “I did.”

  I tilt my head and realise that the thing I thought was seaweed is actually a pair of shoes. I trace my way up the body, slowly, just in case I see something horrible, but I can’t see the head, until one of the policemen gets out of the way.

  The beam of a torch flashes across the hair. Ginger. Ginger curls.

  “Oh my God!” I mutter. “It’s him. The man I saw from the bus.”

  Chapter 5

  But it isn’t.

  “Have a cup of tea,” says Granddad. “How was school?”

  I know he’s trying to change the subject.

  “I’m still not convinced it wasn’t him,” says Zahra, as she reaches into the bread bin with one hand and the fridge with the other.

  “It wasn’t,” I say. “Definitely not.”

  “People look different when they’re dead,” says Granddad.

  “Not that different,” I say. “Wrong-shaped face, wrong nose. The man on the beach was skinny. The man on the street was solid.” My voice sounds cheery and matter-of-fact, but I don’t really feel like that inside. I’ve never seen a dead body before. It was weird. Waxy.

  “Just a coincidence, then,” says Zahra. “You know, two red-headed men in a city of eight million.”

  Granddad takes my hand, and although he’s really talking to Zahra, he looks at me as he says it. “There’s no such thing as coincidence. If there’s a damp patch on your ceiling and a puddle on your floor, then they’re probably connected. Unless you’ve got a puppy of course.” He laughs a rattly, smog-filled cough and struggles to the sink for a glass of water, then, having drunk three he flings himself back into the chair and pats me on the back of the head.

  “How’s the motorbike going?” asks Zahra. Now she’s trying to change the subject – she never usually wants to know anything about the bikes. She hates machines. Unless they make milkshakes.

  “I wonder who he is?” I ask. “The dead bloke.”

  “Go on,” says Zahra. “You’re dying to check.” She stuffs the side of an enormous Nutella sandwich into her mouth.

  We have a rule in our house about phones at the table, but we’re not really eating, it’s only Zahra stuffing her gob. I enter the words: Body, Thames beach, Globe, and then narrow the search terms to the last twenty-four hours. It’s there.

  Body pulled from Thames.

  And that’s all there is.

  I walk to the window a
nd peer out into the darkness. Masses of people are on the street. Some moving, some still. Any of them could be him.

  “Can we buy a Christmas tree yet, Granddad?” asks Zahra, licking chocolate off her fingers. “Only they’re selling really good ones at the back of the market.”

  * * *

  On our way home from school the next day a man and a woman hand out newspapers at the underground station. I take one for Granddad.

  “Thanks,” I say and stare down at the headline.

  There on the front page, is my man. The man I saw in Regent Street.

  Even Zahra stops.

  Without saying a word we take the paper to the side of the pavement and spread it across the back of a bench.

  MURDER SUSPECT PETER ROMERO

  Police are advising the public that Peter Romero is considered dangerous. He is wanted in connection with the murder of Georgio Romero, art dealer … (cont. p2).

  I read it over and over. The headline fragments in front of me. MURDER?

  MURDER?!

  Zahra reaches for page two. I think I’ve guessed what it might say before she even flicks it over.

  … who was yesterday found on the Thames shoreline in full view of thousands of tourists visiting the historic Globe Theatre. Post-mortem results show that he was shot and already dead before entering the water. Police are appealing for witnesses.

  My eyes leap down the page.

  Georgio Romero, 45, was born in Glasgow. After attending Manchester University, he went on to become an art historian, working closely with the National Gallery in acquisition and restoration. He was known as an international art dealer of significance.

  Police say they would like to hear from anyone with any information about Georgio Romero’s death, but that they are actively seeking the apprehension of his brother, Peter. They warn the public not to approach the suspect as he is considered dangerous.

  That’s it.

  I swallow hard and stare at the people pouring in and out of the underground station. There are thousands of them. The red-headed man could appear at any second. Zahra goes on reading and rereading.

  Murder?

  “Right.” I grab Zahra by the elbow. “Time we got ourselves home.”

  “What are you going to do?” She jams the newspaper in her bag.

  “I’m going to get you into the flat and I’m going to ring the police again,” I say, rushing ahead.

  “But you didn’t actually see anything.”

  “I know, but I took a photo, with a flash.” I duck around a street lamp, shouting back to Zahra on the pavement behind me. “He saw me. Black hair with a white streak.”

  She puts her hand up to her head. Her own streak glows yellow under the street light.

  “I mean,” I say, pulling her past a barrier. “How many of us are there?”

  Chapter 6

  When we reach the flat I make the phone call again. This time I get through really quickly.

  “The man in the paper, Peter Romero, he’s the man I saw in Regent Street, with a gun.”

  The line clicks, and hums and after a few minutes I get a woman who introduces herself as Detective Sergeant Parker. She listens as I tell her what I saw in the street.

  “You’re absolutely sure it was him?”

  “Yes – I know I don’t have the photos, but it was him.”

  “And you actually saw him holding the gun?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “And he saw you because the camera flashed?”

  “Yes. And I’m scared he’s going to find me,” I whisper.

  “Don’t worry, Maya. London’s a big place.”

  “I’ve got very obvious hair, and I was wearing school uniform, he might find me that way.”

  There’s a long pause. “I understand,” she says. “In the meantime, see if you can find that missing memory card – it would be really helpful.”

  * * *

  In the morning both Zahra and I wear bobble hats to cover our white streaks and soon we’re in a crowd of school kids all heading the same way, all wearing the same uniform.

  We stop at a pedestrian crossing. Every man I pass looks like Peter Romero. The one who looks most like him is a bloke with a beanie and a fluorescent jacket on the other side of the road. He stares at us all as we cross. I see him again on the corner of Union Street. I swear that he sees me, but a lorry load of roof tiles cuts us off from each other and Zahra and her friend Lou grab me by the elbows and sweep me on towards school.

  I struggle through physics and Spanish, my brain clicking over and at break I hide in the toilets and ring the police number I rang last night.

  “Yes – can I speak to Detective Sergeant Parker? I think I’ve seen Peter Romero again.”

  I have to stick my finger in my ear to hear over the babble of people applying make-up outside my cubicle.

  The familiar voice comes on the line. “Where?”

  “Union Street, Southwark – he was wearing one of those high-vis jackets. Next to a hole in the road. Less than an hour ago.”

  “We’ll send a car to pick you up from school. Detective Constable Fallon will come to the school reception and accompany you home. Don’t leave the building until he arrives. OK?”

  * * *

  There should be a word for a mixture of fear and worry. I’d call it “feary”. I am currently feeling feary. After maths, I rush to reception and find the detective reading the school magazine.

  “Maya?” he says.

  I nod.

  “Just you?” he asks.

  “Yes – my sister’s staying for the Christmas concert and she’s in the choir.”

  She’s with her friends, but I’d like to keep her with me. I’d like to go around with a big bubble protecting all my family and all my friends from that man out there.

  “Put your hat on,” the detective says, and we run for the police car parked on the zigzag lines outside the school. It only takes a moment to get me home.

  * * *

  “Where’s Zahra?” asks Mum. It’s the evening and we’re sitting at the back of the packed school hall. All the parents in the world seem to have crammed themselves inside.

  “On stage?” I guess.

  “Well the others are – but I can’t see her,” says Mum, half-standing.

  “What d’you mean?” says Dad, picking something sticky from Ishan’s hair.

  “The others are up there but there’s no sign of Zahra,” says Mum. “She never said anything about doing anything special. I thought she was just singing in the chorus. It’s just that if she’s got a solo or something then we’ll have to do something with the twins – they’ll never sit here for longer than half an hour.”

  I look over all the people’s heads towards the stage. I scan slowly left to right and then right to left. “I’ll go and check out what’s happening,” I say.

  “Good girl,” says Granddad, snorting into a large white-cotton handkerchief and buffing it across the bottom of his nose.

  I slip down the side of the hall to the corner of the stage. There’s a girl with plaits that I recognise from Zahra’s year.

  “Is my sister here?” I ask.

  She looks along the row. “She should be. Everyone else is – hey!” she nudges her neighbour. “Is Zahra here?”

  There’s shuffling while everyone checks to see who’s there. “No,” calls someone further along. “She went to the toilet about twenty minutes ago. I don’t think she came back.”

  “She better get here soon,” says someone else. “We’re due to start at seven.”

  Something chimes in my head. A tiny alarm bell.

  “Which toilets?” I ask.

  Their heads bob forward as they all look at each other. “The ones by reception,” calls a girl from the other end. “I think.”

  I check behind the green curtains at the back of the stage, in case she’s there frozen with stage fright. But she isn’t. I knew she wouldn’t be.

  Feeling both calm
and terrified, I ask Mrs Roxburgh the music teacher if she’s seen Zahra.

  “No, Maya,” she says, tapping her watch. “I haven’t, but she’d better get a move on.”

  The audience is still filing into seats, and there’s five minutes before the concert is actually due to start so I duck out into the corridor. A clutch of sixth-formers are chatting and twiddling with their instruments. Normally I’d be a little shy of them, but this is an emergency.

  “Have you seen Zahra?” I ask. “My sister, looks like me but—”

  “Smaller?” asks a boy with hair like a nest. “No – not here.”

  I mumble thanks and charge down the passage that leads behind the hall. The doors at the end are locked. She can’t be through there, so I turn back and blunder into the sixth-formers again. As I bust them apart they make exaggerated noises, and I hear someone tapping a microphone in the hall. Half running, half walking I get to reception, which is more or less empty.

  Two Year Sevens are clearing up Coke cans. The deputy head, Mr France, is talking to Tiggy Spence’s mum, and the front doors into the car park are closed. Outside is the police car that brought us here.

  I hover quite close to Mr France, but not too close, trying not to look like I’m listening to their conversation, but they’re talking about something really seriously. Someone taps the microphone in the hall again, so I dart back into the hall, looking up at the stage.

  She’s not there.

  I glance at Mum. She shrugs. Zahra isn’t there either.

  Oh God.

  Oh no.

  Rushing back to Mr France, I wedge myself between him and Tiggy Spence’s mum.

  “Maya!” he protests.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say, in the vague direction of Tiggy’s mum, “but my sister, Zahra – she’s missing. She’s gone, I think she’s been kidnapped. Can you go out and get those policemen?”

  Chapter 7

  If Zahra was here, she’d say I’d gone too far. But she isn’t.

  A perfectly dressed man called Inspector Khan is looking out of place seated on a small green plastic chair alongside DS Parker, who turns out to be a woman with strange taste in lipstick colour.