Dark Winter Series (Book 1): Dark Winter

by Fernfield, Rebecca

  A thud from the kitchen was followed by a crash and a scream, and then Gregor’s heavy thumping feet as he stamped up the stairs and into the bathroom. Callum waited for the shower’s pump to buzz into life, pulled on yesterday’s jeans and t-shirt, then made his way to the kitchen. The floor that Gregor insisted be kept immaculate was sprayed with milk and shards of broken cups. Shannon lay curled among the debris, her left cheek, already mottled with an older bruise, swelling again. Beside her a frying pan lay bottom-up, a pool of oil spreading from beneath its rim. Callum crouched, casting a quick glance at the woman, then grabbed its handle, relieved that the pan was cold. Shannon sniffled as he placed the frying pan back on the stove.

  “Just do as he tells you,” Callum grunted as he reached for the kettle. Water splashed against his t-shirt as he turned on the tap.

  “It was an accident!” Her voice retained an edge of defiance.

  “Then don’t have any more accidents!” Callum countered, irritation instantly triggered.

  “How can I do that? An accident is an accident!”

  “Listen ...” He wanted to tell her about Casey, tell her to leave, but just standing in the kitchen talking to her would infuriate Gregor. He sighed; what was the point, none of them ever seemed to learn. “Just do as he tells you, and don’t have any more accidents.” Callum zoned in on the noise from the bathroom; the shower was still running. “Then he won’t hit you,” he insisted with a quiet hiss, already regretting his words.

  “He only does it because I make him angry.”

  Callum sighed again; he had heard this one before. “Sure,” he said with a sideways glance at the girl. Her left eye was puffy, her cheek grazed and smeared with blackened oil where the frying pan had made contact, and there were dark prints on her neck where a hand had squeezed. She would last fewer months than poor Casey if she didn’t learn to be obedient; seen but not heard was how Gregor preferred his women. The warming kettle filled the kitchen with noise as the element began to heat the water.

  “He loves me really.”

  Callum stared out to the garden with its oblong of overgrown grass and narrow concrete path. Rain spattered the window. His eyes glazed as Shannon continued, making desperate excuses for Gregor’s abuse as the rivulets ran down the glass. “Sure,” Callum returned, no longer listening to her whining voice.

  “He does. He loves me. He told me.”

  “None of my business.”

  “And I love him!”

  Callum bit back the words he wanted to shout, stuffed hands that wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her until she listened, into his pockets and replied with a disinterested, “If you say so,” then followed it with, “Get this place tidied. It’s a shit-hole,” as the bathroom door opened. If she wanted to get half-battered to death by Gregor, then that was her look out. He had said enough—more than he should have. He poured himself a bowl of cereal then shuffled through to the living room and turned on the television. Flicking between the channels, mug of tea steaming on the floor beside bare toes, he turned up the volume to drown out the noise of Shannon clearing up the mess. The channel flicked to the news, and an image of tanks changed to a close-up of an array of weapons, and then to an empty podium placed on the pavement in front of a black door. Brass numbers claimed it as ten. Bored, Callum flicked the channel over to a show where a tanned and chunky grey-haired man smiled lasciviously at the viewer whilst taking a bite from a freshly baked slice of homemade bread. Callum gave a derisory, half-amused snort, then spooned cereal into his mouth as he recalled the attention-grabbing magazine headlines he had read whilst waiting in line at the local supermarket. They claimed a no-holds-barred, tell-it-all confessional by the celebrity baker’s much younger, now ex, barmaid-mistress.

  “The sket dumped you, ey?” he said to the screen as the baker took another bite of the bread before turning to the glamorous presenter at his side. “Serves you right,” Callum mumbled through a mouthful of cereal. “Dirty old sod! You should have stuck with your wife.” He flicked the channel again, this time settling on the National Geographic channel and a show about the solar system narrated by Professor Brian Cox. As he spooned more cereal into his mouth, the mobile used for their deal-line rang, and he answered the call. Without pleasantries he asked, “What you want?” and took the order, noting down the details: ‘Grimsby. Dock-boy. 12 Lovett Street. 10 Coke, 6 Smack, 1 Weed.’ As Callum replaced the mobile on its stand, Gregor pushed the door open. Lean and tattooed, the muscles of his scarred torso rippled as he rubbed a towel over closely cropped, greying, dirty-blond, hair. A long welt ran from his left pectoral down to his naval, and a round and twisted scar, that he claimed was made by a bullet, sat on his shoulder. Despite being clean-shaven, and newly showered, with his high cheekbones, sharply bridged nose, wide and lined forehead, and blue eyes framed by pale blond lashes, Gregor looked every inch the harsh and unforgiving hardman that he was.

  “Well? Who was it, and how much they want?”

  “Dock Boy. He wants ten coke, six smack, one weed.”

  Gregor narrowed his eyes. “Half what he ordered last time.”

  “Do you think the locals are ordering from another line?”

  “Po,” Gregor replied with a grunt of agreement in his native Albanian. Reaching for his mobile, Gregor thumbed the screen then held the phone to his ear. Seconds later he offered, “Përshëndetje.,” which Callum recognised as hello. What followed was incomprehensible to Callum although he recognised the words, ‘problem’, and ‘Grimsby’. Minutes later, Gregor ended the call and turned his unsmiling face to Callum. “We meet Dominic tonight and finish this problem. Get dressed. Change plates on car. We will leave in one hour.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Grimsby, England

  Jamshid Baraghani turned in his sleep, the insistent ‘beep!’ of his mobile finally making it through to his subconscious. He grabbed the mobile and read the text. A single phrase appeared on the screen, ‘Kick off is at ten’. Instantly alert, he threw the duvet from his body and, in one swift movement, rose from the bed. His breath misted white in the cold air, and he shivered before striding to the bathroom and standing under its spray of hot water for a full ten minutes, the text message churning in his mind.

  The day had finally come.

  For three years he had been stuck in this godforsaken hole of a town. Three years of drizzle-filled days, ugly buildings, and downtrodden people scarred by poverty. Now, it was time to do the job he had trained for, and then - for the love of all that was good in this world! - he could go back home, back to the sun, and his wife, and his child.

  Kick-off is at ten. The message was innocuous enough, the phrase chosen no doubt for its innocence, but for Jamshid those five words were loaded with significance. They were his cue to act, the moment after which he could begin his life again.

  Leaving the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his middle, he dried his hair with quick movements, heart pounding, unable to discern whether the flipping sensation in his belly was the result of excitement or fear. He reached for a cigarette, ignoring the slight tremble of his hand as he held a flame to its end and stood, with the towel still in place, staring at the closed curtains as he took the first drag. Light shone through the cheap fabric, and smoke played in the ray of sunlight sneaking through the gap where the two curtains didn’t quite meet. The woman in his bed stirred. Self-loathing slipped over him like a damp cloth, and his belly did another flip. He forced himself to look away from her naked body, taking another drag on the cigarette, and blowing the smoke from his lungs. A cloud of white filled the small room. The woman opened her eyes, wafted at the smoke, then turned onto her belly, cocooning herself in the duvet.

  The sight of Jade, the woman naked in his bed, would usually arouse the animal instinct he allowed himself to indulge, but the thought of being with his wife - in just a few days—please! - damped down any desire he had for the pudgy blonde. He felt no remorse that he had used her to satisfy his carnal needs for the pa
st two years, although he would miss her enthusiasm and the sensation of falling into her soft flesh as she wrapped her legs around his hips. But he wouldn’t miss her dull gaze, or the whining that he didn’t pay her enough attention, or the constant checking that she had taken her birth control pills. The last thing he wanted, apart from his wife finding out that he had kept a mistress during his absence, was to leave a child behind, fatherless and living in poverty with almost zero hope of dragging itself out from the low-income/no-income, no-hope life that seeped through the lower classes in the town. He slipped on his jeans, pulling them up over lean hips and taut belly.

  Jade began to rouse and, as she stretched, a full breast peeped from the duvet. Jamshid turned to the door, grabbed his t-shirt from the end of the bed, and made his way to the kitchen. She called for him to put the kettle on as he padded down the hallway, a trail of smoke following his progress. A waft of cold air brushed against his arms and he grabbed his hoodie from the sofa as he passed through the living room, wishing that he had put his socks on before leaving the bedroom.

  His mind returned to the text message as he filled the kettle with water. Dull light filled the kitchen, the space overshadowed by the neighbouring house, a mirror of his own with its two-up, two-down construction and double-storey extension at the back. The six-foot brick wall that separated the back yards and gardens faced him through the window. Even the moss and ferns that grew within the cracks of its mortar seemed dismal and shrivelled beneath their covering of white frost. Ash fell into the sink from the cigarette pursed between his lips, and water splashed the drainer as he overfilled the kettle. His hands shook. He sighed to ease the tension, sitting the kettle on its base with a clack. In the background, he was vaguely aware of the noise of Jade leaving their bedroom and entering the bathroom.

  For several moments he allowed himself to consider the woman; how would he tell her it was the end of their relationship and, that once he left through the front door, he wouldn’t be returning? Perhaps a, ‘it’s not you, it’s me’? Maybe he could concoct a story about a family problem - the fictitious father, brother, mother, sister, and various offspring that lived in Dubai - and that he had to leave on the next flight back? A father’s illness? A sister’s death? He certainly couldn’t tell her the truth—that he was part of a covert cell, operated by a secret department within the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and Security, trained and waiting to undertake whatever directives it issued, and that he had finally – thank the stars! – been called to act. Quite what the directive would be, he would be informed of later that morning, but given the set of skills that his particular ‘cell’ possessed, it had to be something big - had better be something big! - that would undermine this country’s government and, hopefully, given his sacrifices, destabilise it to the point of anarchy. Since the viral outbreak of Covid-19, and the devastating economic fallout the draconian lockdown had brought down upon the country, it should be easy. What he did know was that activity among the intelligence and security community had ramped up since the assassination of Major General Soleimani, despite the fallout after a Ukrainian passenger plane was shot down in error. That incident had set his teeth on edge; his countrymen had been made to look like inept fools!

  The kettle began to boil, filling the narrow kitchen with noise. He shivered, tapped the radiator to check that it was working, then made the decision not to tell Jade anything. Once he was gone, he was gone. It was none of her business where he was going, and he owed her nothing. The rent on the house was paid up for another three months, the cupboards were stocked with food, and the utility bills were all in credit. She had a job, she would not starve, or be made homeless, and he knew for sure that she wasn’t pregnant. He could leave her without guilt. She was young enough to find another man and no doubt would within a few weeks if she were anything like her circle of friends.

  His mobile vibrated again. He checked the screen. It read, ‘Freshney Place. One hour.’

  Jamshid poured boiling water into a glass for himself and a mug for Jade, added teabags and two spoons of sugar to each, then stood propped against the kitchen counter and lit another cigarette. Outside, snow began to fall.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Police Surveillance Vehicle, Lovett Street, Grimsby

  Police Constable Victoria Al Farad took a sip of coffee and grimaced as the weak mixture of cheap roasted granules and boiling water burned her tongue. “They know how to ruin coffee at that shop,” she said in disgust. Placing the throwaway beaker in the bin, she returned her attention to the live video feeding in from the surveillance camera trained on the road outside the van. The screen showed a narrow residential street of terraced housing with cars parked along much of its length on both sides. Snow fell in large flakes. “It’s like dishwater from hell!”

  “Stick to the tea, Vick,” her colleague, PC Joshua Padanowski, replied taking a bite of his sandwich. “You can’t go far wrong with tea.”

  The sulphuric waft of mashed eggs filled the van. “God, that stinks! Get ham or beef next time.”

  “Gayle packed me up.”

  Vicky batted at the noxious air. “It’s true then!”

  “What?” he asked through a mouthful of egg, mayonnaise, and bread.

  “That woman hates me.”

  “She doesn’t!”

  “She does!”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Just the way she looks at me. Intuition.”

  “She’s just jealous of your sultry good looks!” Joshua laughed and held her gaze for a second longer than necessary.

  Vicky’s cheeks prickled; she couldn’t tell whether Josh was flirting with her or just taking the micky; he could be an arse that way, likeable with it though. She decided on the latter. “Sod off Padanowski!”

  “It’s true ... she’s jealous.”

  Vicky huffed; after the problems she’d had with PC Gareth Johnson, her previous police partner, the last thing she needed was another jealous girlfriend to deal with. She had even taken to wearing her hair in a tight, military-style bun at the nape of her neck in the hope it gave her a sterner demeanour to counteract the curves of the figure that PC Johnson had been far too interested in touching. She gave the bun a quick pat then, reassured it was still in place, said, “Well, I’m not changing partners just to suit her.” There was no way either, that she wanted to spend her days shackled to another female officer; men were so much easier to talk to, and never, hardly ever, moaned about being neglected by their boyfriends, or got paranoid over only one digital kiss at the end of his text message when she had sent three, or jabbered endlessly about their kids. Sadness scratched through her as an old memory flashed with an image of the son too frail to live outside the safety of her womb. The child hadn’t even lived long enough to open his eyes and see the love shining in hers. He had died in her arms, his tiny hand clutching her finger, without taking a breath. Digging nails into her palm, she stamped on the sadness and focused again on Joshua’s newest girlfriend. “Last time we spoke, she was drilling me about exactly what we do when we’re out on a job.”

  “And?”

  “So, I told her that we sit real close, then pretend to snog when a perp walks past, to look natural, like.”

  Joshua snorted, spraying crumbs of egg mayonnaise. “You did not! No wonder she’s jealous!”

  “I only said it because she was being such a bi-”

  “I know she can be a bit of a cow, Vick, but she’s alright really.”

  He doesn’t know the half of it! “I know I shouldn’t have wound her up, but I’m telling you, Josh, that woman ...” Her voice trailed off as a figure emerged from a house further along the road. Both officers sat in silence as the man, dressed in black tracksuit bottoms and faded purple hoodie, walked towards the van. Vicky watched the screen closely, checking for any identifying marks.

  “Did he come out of number twelve?”

  “No. Ten, I think.” She leant into the screen, pointing at the man’s arm. “Se
e there. He’s got a tattoo on the back of his hand.”

  Joshua leant in, his arm brushing Vicky’s shoulder, to focus on the small area of white skin. “Hard to say what it is.”

  “Looks like it could be a string of beads?”

  “Maybe with a cross—one of those Rosary tattoos they seem to like? We’ll get a close-up later. It does looks like the tat that kid had—the one who got stabbed behind the store off Grimsby Road last week.”

  “Wasn’t he a member of the line operating out of Liverpool?”

  “Yeah. PC Garton says they have good info that he’s a runner, so low in the hierarchy, but also an addict.”

  “Jesus that’s sad. He’s just a kid.”

  “Yeah, fifteen according to Garton. She has a witness who says that the victim was involved in a disagreement with another man. He was shouting about him owing money before he stabbed him. Of course, the kid refuses to give a description of his attacker, but all the evidence points to it being drug related.”

  Joshua shook his head. “Just a kid,” he repeated. “Makes you worry to have your own.”

  His words bit at her pain, but she pushed it down and offered a weak ‘Yeah’ then said, “And it gets worse. Garton says her team have good intel that the gang has started targeting primary school kids in the last month.”

  “Bloody scumbags.”

  The watched man sauntered past the van and disappeared down the end of the street. Vicky’s attention returned to the trap house, 12 Lovett Street, where the suspected drug trafficking gang was thought to be operating from.

  “He came out of number ten anyway.”

  “Sure, but he could be involved; it’s how they operate, pulling vulnerable people in.”

  “Practically this entire street then.”

  Vicky knew exactly what Joshua meant; this entire area of Grimsby, close to the docks, with its row after row of narrow back-to-back dilapidated terraced houses wore its poverty like a moth-eaten blanket. Back gardens with their rectangular patch of grass or concrete, were scattered with kids’ toys, rusting garden chairs, bikes, and dog shit. Front yards were decorated with dumped mattresses, beer cans, and rubble from crumbling front walls. Thin curtains hung limp behind windows hazed with grime, their linings bearing the yellow rings of damp. The odd, well-maintained house, with its shining glass, brilliant white window frames, smartly dressed curtains, and brightly coloured doors, stuck out like a beacon of hope in a desert of grunge.