Murder In Midwinter

by Fleur Hitchcock

“There’s a painting here that’s worth loads,” I say. “And I’m sure it’s connected, but I don’t know how.”

  “Lay the table for me, Maya love, will you?” asks Auntie V.

  I put the laptop down, and try to bring my head back to the here and now.

  Chapter 21

  The snow is falling even harder now. All the mud has disappeared, the barn has disappeared. Everything has disappeared. Even the window has nearly disappeared.

  “Goodness,” says Auntie V. “I hope those policemen are all right.”

  Auntie V flicks through the channels. Shots of lorries skewed sideways on motorways and sheep stranded on hillsides fill the screen.

  The phone rings and Auntie V rushes to pick it up. “You have? Oh! That’s marvellous. Marvellous news.”

  She listens.

  “We’ll have them in for a cup of tea, and – yes – an hour or so. Quite. Well if necessary we can lend them the quad bike.”

  She puts the phone down.

  “They’ve caught him. Heat-seeking helicopters found him on the other side of the mountain. He’s been living there in a white tent, apparently. What a relief.”

  She smiles and in her eyes I see tears. I think she’s been as scared as me, but trying to hold it together. Her, stuck on a mountainside with two children and a killer on the loose.

  I sink into the sofa. Close my eyes and relax. I nearly fall asleep but Auntie V calls in Sergeant Lewis and WPC Jones and shoves pizza under our noses.

  * * *

  Before bed, I ring Mum. She already knows.

  “I’ll try to come tomorrow, but having seen the pictures on the telly I can’t see the van managing the motorway, let alone those lanes. Oh, it will be lovely to have you home, love – I’ve really missed you.”

  “I’ve really missed you too,” I say, and I change the screen saver on my tablet to a picture of the whole family standing together on Brighton beach.

  I leave the curtains open. The light from the stable shines on my ceiling showing the soft silhouettes of snowflakes circling and circling.

  Megan comes to sleep on the floor. I don’t throw her out.

  Sleep comes in doses.

  In the middle of the night, an e-mail manages to come through. It’s from Zahra, with loads of pictures of the party. And I fall asleep, replying. Feeling almost normal.

  * * *

  In the morning, the snow’s still falling hard. So hard, I only catch glimpses of the stables. There’s no way Mum’s going to get here so I clamber out of bed, pull my clothes on and go downstairs.

  “Can I make a snowman?” I ask.

  “Oh, of course, Maya – I suppose snow means something quite different to you – it’s just, we have to clear the lane in case anything happens to any of the horses and we need a vet.”

  “I’ll do it with the bulldozer,” says Ollie. “It’ll only take a second.”

  We go out into the snow. It’s floating thickly from the sky, the mountain’s gone, the roofs have gone. Everything is thick and invisible. But it feels great to be outside without being afraid.

  Ollie clambers up into the seat and I clunk the fuel pump with a spanner and he chugs out of the yard and up the track, squashing the snow out of the way and flinging it over the walls on either side. I walk behind in the tracks, enjoying the sight of the new snow falling on the cleared mud of the path.

  I wish Zahra were here, she’d love it. Back home, they’ll be watching the same snow falling and melting on the main road. It’ll be black already, and unless someone walks to the South Bank, no chance of snowmen for them.

  But I could at least build a snowman and take a picture.

  I begin with a ball, and roll it on the untouched snow crusting the tops of the walls.

  It takes a moment to be the size of a football and I drop it on the verge where it begins to flock up with thick snow, soon becoming as big as a gym ball.

  It’s so easy. There’s so much of it.

  Rolling the snowman’s body into the yard, I park it by the front door and begin to pack more ice around the bottom so that it doesn’t move. I begin another ball, this time from the corner of the yard, and soon, I’ve got enough for a head.

  Behind me, the bulldozer thunders along the lane, and I rush to prop the gate open. It rumbles into the yard and stops just past the gate. Ollie slips down.

  “Neat!” he says, pointing at the snowman. “I’ll find you some coal for the buttons.”

  I stare up at the twirling snow. It falls like marshmallows from the sky, settling softly on my face and also on my snowman, softening his contours and covering up the muddy bits. It’s fantastic, I’ve never seen anything like it.

  “Great,” says Ollie, bunging the buttons on to the front. “And thanks,” he says, not meeting my eye. “Thanks for getting the bulldozer going. It’s – magic.”

  “You’ll have to thank Granddad. He’s the one. He knew what we needed to do. I asked him – via Zahra,” I admit. “I only really know about motorbikes.”

  “He knows a lot about machinery then?” says Ollie, packing some more snow around the back of the snowman.

  “Yeah, he reckons everything’s fixable, and he never gives up.”

  Ollie looks at the ground and kicks at the snow. “Mum says we’re very similar.”

  “You and Granddad?”

  “Yes – she says we’re both bloody-minded. That we’re always trying to reinvent the wheel. That we don’t stop when we should.”

  “Determined?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Oh.” It’s my turn to kick at the snow. Ollie sounds as if he’s describing me.

  “I’d love to see him, but we’re so far away, and he doesn’t travel much – does he?”

  “Not often,” I say. “But I’m sure he’d enjoy your bulldozer – and you of course.”

  Ollie shrugs and digs out a broken riding hat to stick on top of the snowman. The snow falls around us and I’m fascinated by the way it moves until something prickles on my spine. I look up. I feel as if I’m being watched but there’s nothing there, only the snowman.

  I pull my bobble hat closer to my head and wander to the front door. As I take off my boots I look again. But there’s no one.

  * * *

  “Pancakes anyone?” says Ollie when we get inside.

  Auntie V smiles and ruffles Ollie’s hair. “Thank you, love. I think there’s a lemon somewhere.” She hunts in the fridge.

  We eat, and I feel oddly vulnerable without our policemen and even though I know it’s all over I look up the Vermeer painting again.

  “What’s that?” asks Ollie peering over my shoulder.

  “The painting. The stolen one.”

  “Very small,” says Ollie.

  Auntie V switches on the telly. More pictures of lorries struggling along roads.

  M4 mostly closed.

  M5 mostly closed.

  We eat the pancakes.

  And chocolate.

  And more chocolate.

  And Ollie banks the fire higher, and I think about paintings and Regent Street.

  * * *

  At first light, Ollie drives the bulldozer out of the farm and along the main road until all we can see is a trail of black smoke against the snow. An hour later he comes back.

  “Done it!” he says. “We’re connected up all the way down to the village. If your Mum comes later, she should be able to get through. Anyone should be able to get through.”

  Chapter 22

  “Maya, love, how are you? Granddad’s not well,” Mum gabbles down the phone at breakfast time.

  “Good, I’m good,” I say. “We’re looking forward to seeing you. What’s wrong with him?”

  “Well, I may not be able to come,” says Mum. “He’s got a shocking cough.”

  “Oh, Mum,” I say.

  “He’ll be fine, he’s on antibiotics but he can’t work, so I’m watching the twins and working in the shop.”

  “What about Dad?” I sa
y. “Couldn’t he come?”

  “It’s a nine-hour round trip, sweetie, and there’s all that snow – but we’ll do it as soon as possible.”

  “Oh,” I say. “But we’ve cleared the road so that you can get through.”

  I hear Mum’s intake of breath and then she says, “Can I speak to Auntie V?” Her voice carries the faintest wobble.

  “Course,” I say, handing the phone over and swallowing hard. I grab a cushion and hug it tight, fighting back the tears.

  * * *

  Auntie V says that we have to exercise the ponies in the indoor school. “They’ll go mad – they’ve been indoors for too long.”

  My puffa jacket is still sopping wet from snowman-building, so I put on my new parka and hope very much that the horsehair will brush off. I take the liquorice from the puffa jacket and bung it in my pocket. I’ve kept it with me whenever I’m outside, just in case we get stuck in the snow. Mum once told me about a man who survived a whole night snowed-in with only a packet of sweets to eat.

  We ride the ponies one after the next. I get pretty expert at mounting and dismounting. I even learn to put on a bridle. When it comes to Samson, Auntie V makes me trot, and then for one very magical moment, canter. I don’t fall off and I don’t get bitten, which goes some way towards compensating me for Mum not coming.

  While I’m joggling around on horseback, I think about my gunman, Peter Romero. Presumably by now he’s safely locked up somewhere and telling his story to Inspector Khan.

  That should make me feel safe, so I don’t quite understand why it doesn’t. We put the ponies back in the pony shed and pull the doors across.

  We come out into spiralling candyfloss snow.

  Once again, my spine tingles and I get that feeling of being watched but when I turn around, there’s no one but the snowman.

  The house phone rings. Auntie V goes in to answer it, shouting back to Ollie. “You’re going to have to move that thing, Ollie.” She points at the bulldozer. “It’s blocking the yard. Take it back up to the mine.”

  Ollie scrambles up into the seat and when I bash the fuel pump it starts up a second time. I watch from a distance as the bulldozer climbs relentlessly up the hill, flattening the already flattened snow, motoring easily over the tussocks and lumps of the track until it disappears in the whiteness.

  I wander back to the house, checking the gateway and the track. I still feel watched.

  The dogs wander out to see what the noise is about and Megan pricks her ears, as if she can smell something.

  “You too?” I say, stepping quickly into the porch and kicking my boots off.

  “Oh dear, Louisa – how dreadful – I’ll come over,” Auntie V is talking on the phone. “But I don’t think I want to bring the Land Rover – I’ll take the quad bike – it’ll be quicker. Half an hour? Yup, yup, ring the vet anyway, just in case he can come.”

  She puts down the receiver.

  “Blast,” she says. “It would happen now.”

  “What?” I say.

  “Delivering a foal. I tend to help with them if they’re difficult or the vet can’t get there. Over at Capel Dewi.” She looks very serious. “I’m really sorry Maya, but I’m going to have to go.”

  “Fine,” I say, not meaning it. “We’ll be fine.”

  “Feed the dogs if I’m not back. I’m sure Ollie’ll appreciate some help feeding the horses – I could be all night, it’s a draught horse. Big.”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Good.”

  I watch her scurry about, getting things together. She puts on an enormous coat and boots and dashes out into the yard. Then she rushes back into the house and kisses me on the top of the head. “Take care, Maya.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s all been rather – traumatic hasn’t it? And I’m sure you’d love to be at home, back in that cosy flat with all the noise and bustle.” She looks sad for a millisecond before stepping out into the snow. A moment later there’s a bang and some smoke and she emerges from a shed on a small rusty-red quad bike. She waves and bounces off along the track, trailing smoke and snow.

  The house goes quiet and all three dogs look up at me dolefully. I go upstairs so that I can look up the mountain, but I can’t see Ollie and although I know that Peter Romero is safely in custody I can’t help feeling uneasy.

  Downstairs again, I turn the old key in the lock and slip down the bolt.

  * * *

  Tap, tap, tap.

  I almost jump out of my skin.

  The dogs go mad and gallop for the door.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Ollie?” I say.

  “Yes – it’s me,” he shouts.

  Hauling the dogs back, and opening the door, I see he’s with a small woman who looks as if she’s been transported from the streets of Milan.

  She’s talking, “…so you see I can’t ring from my mobile and then I saw the lights of the farmhouse and I followed your excellent snowploughed path. I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t.”

  “Gosh,” says Ollie. “What on earth were you doing up here?”

  They come through from the hallway. He’s taller than her.

  “I followed a satnav to Llandovery, and there was a broken-down lorry, so I took a diversion, but…” She shrugs, waving back towards the mountain closing in with darkness. “This wasn’t quite what I had in mind. And then my engine cut out and—”

  “I’m sure,” says Ollie. “We’re pretty wild and woolly up here. Lucky you had wellingtons in the car.”

  “Yes, wasn’t it,” says the woman.

  He waves her past him towards the phone in the kitchen.

  I attempt to get the wood burner roaring and Ollie clicks on the sidelights to make the room cosy.

  She’s very small and neat and doesn’t look a bit like someone who would naturally be driving around in Wales. She looks far more like someone from New York or Paris. Apart from the wellies, she’s wearing an expensive-looking black padded coat, which she takes off to reveal a neat little red cardigan and some perfectly cut trousers. Huge gold earrings catch the faint golden light coming through the window that faces the mountain. She passes her eyes over me and the house and the dogs.

  “Here’s the phone,” says Ollie, handing her the receiver.

  “Oh, thank you,” says the woman. She whips off her gloves, snaps open a £700 handbag and retrieves her own phone, clicking through the contacts with perfectly painted long green nails. Diamanté-studded nails. A thought whizzes through my mind and out the other side before I have time to grab it, chased away by her tinkling laugh.

  She looks more out of place here than I do.

  “You are on your own here?” she asks, casually.

  “Yes,” says Ollie. “Mum’s gone—”

  “No,” I say, glaring at him. “She’s upstairs – she hasn’t left yet.”

  “Oh,” says Ollie, raising his eyebrows at me. “Coffee?” he offers with a politeness I’ve never seen before.

  “So kind,” the woman looks doubtfully at the overworn kitchen. “Tea, perhaps? Black, weak?”

  Ollie nods his head. “Coming up.”

  She dials. “Oh, hello. Can you help me? I am in a farmhouse, called…?” The woman looks at Ollie.

  “It’s the Valley Trekking Centre, Valley Farm Stables.”

  “Yes, and the car is coughing.” The woman talks slowly into the phone. “There is something wrong.”

  She listens.

  “Yes,”

  I stare at her. I don’t care if it’s rude.

  “Yes, that’s right, I am at the farm, right now.” She nods. “Yes, there are people here, children – but now would be good, yes, very good. Perfect, see you soon.”

  She replaces the phone in the cradle and puts her mobile back in her megabucks handbag.

  This does not feel right.

  “You are brother and sister?” she asks, wandering around the room, peering up the stairs, her eyes moving all the time
.

  Those sparkly nails.

  “No,” says Ollie, cheerfully. “She’s my cousin.”

  And something about that hair. “You have a toilet?” she asks.

  “Upstairs,” says Ollie. “I’ll show you.”

  And the way she’s holding her hands.

  “No problem,” she says, “I’m sure I can find it.”

  She’s even the right height.

  “No – I’ll just make sure it’s decent,” he says, running ahead of her.

  As I hear their feet on the boards above my head I run to the phone, dial the number the inspector left behind and realise that no one’s going to get here in time.

  “Hello?” comes the voice on the other end. “DS Parker.”

  “Maya here,” I whisper into the handset. “We need help here, urgently – there’s a woman.” And then I slam it back and grab the poker from the wood burner.

  It was incomprehensible but it should be enough to get their attention.

  The toilet flushes upstairs and I hear a slight scuffle on the landing then Ollie shouts something I can’t quite hear.

  I get myself ready behind the door that leads upstairs, poker in hand, my mouth completely dry.

  It’s her.

  The woman from the street. I knew I recognised her. Why would she be here if she wasn’t part of it?

  The poker’s shaking. My whole arm’s shaking and then I hear the first step.

  One

  Two

  Three

  Ollie’s head appears.

  It’s got a gun attached to it, and a hand, and I panic, and I don’t drop the poker in time and then they’re standing in the room and she’s looking at me and I’ve blown it.

  “Maya,” she says. “Where is it?”

  “What?” I say.

  “It,” she says.

  “What’s she talking about?” says Ollie, his head at a really weird angle, a droplet of sweat already pooling on his chin.

  “I will shoot him if you don’t tell me. The painting, you have it.”

  “I don’t,” I say. “How could I have it?”

  “You do, I know you do, he told me, yesterday.” At that moment, the woman changes the gun from her right hand to her left, the kettle decides to start whistling, Ollie jumps and I bring the poker up hard under her arm, cracking into the gun and watching it arc through the air.