Snow Burn: A thrilling detective mystery

by PT Reade

  She extended her delicate hand, and when I shook it, I found her grip to be surprisingly firm. “I’m Remay,” she said.

  “That’s your name? Unfortunate.” I said, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

  She shrugged, with a sardonic look. “No worse than ‘Blume,’ I guess.”

  I cracked a tired smile. “Thomas Blume, in fact.”

  “Nicole Remay.” She offered.

  “What can I do for you, Nicole Remay?” I enquired

  “I noticed you hanging around. I’m an intern on the Coroner’s team. I was hoping to chat with you.”

  “I know I look like crap, but I’m not quite ready for the table just yet.” I joked.

  “Very funny.” She said flatly. “No, I wanted to speak about a deal.”

  “Right now?” I asked, looking over her shoulder at the few police milling around outside of the coroner’s office. There was also a news van sitting at the far end of the lot, the crew of which was being chastised by more officers.

  “I know, I know,” Remay said. “You want to get over there, crack some heads, and see what dirt you can dig up. But why bother when you can come directly to the source?”

  “You want to give me information?” I asked, eyeing her skeptically and already wondering what her angle was.

  She grinned a lop-sided smile in reply that I imagined had caused many men to lose their train of thought. I just about held on to mine.

  “I do,” she answered.

  “So easily?”

  “Well, I have a feeling you might be working on this Ashburn case. If so, I figured that you might be looking into how this hacker was killed last night.”

  “Gremlin,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “His name was Gremlin.”

  “Now that is unfortunate.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “Now that he’s unfortunately very dead, I’m thinking this case is over.”

  She studied me for a while, and I could feel her eyes prying. She then looked me directly in the eyes and said, rather coldly: “No, you don’t. You think there’s more. Now why would you lie to me about that? I’m here to help, Mr. Blume.”

  I was surprised at her sudden boldness and how well she had read me. I was immediately intrigued by this woman, but I decided to keep my cards close to my chest for now.

  “How?”

  “To offer you a deal.”

  “What kind of a deal?”

  “If you can find out what happened to the hacker — to this Gremlin — then I will give you full access to the morgue’s files on your family.”

  “How do you know about my family?” I asked, a bit angry. It was a subject I wasn’t ready to share with a stranger.

  “I’m a good researcher, too.”

  “But I already have the files.” I replied.

  “You have the official files, maybe. Not the ones I can get.”

  I folded my arms, losing patience. “Why would I want them?”

  She leaned against the car next to me and stared over at the news crews milling near the entrance. “There are two sides to every story, Blume.” She seemed distant for a moment. “And two sides to every report we issue here. The official one, cleaned up and sanitized for the newspapers, and the real one. I can get you the original Coroner’s report in his own words. No editing. No bullshit.”

  “So what’s the difference between the one you can get and the one I’ve already seen?”

  “I have no idea, but wouldn’t you like to see it?”

  She was pushing all my buttons, knowing I’d kill to find out any information on my family’s case. Hell, I’d do worse than kill, but I also didn’t like being played.

  “They died six months ago. You have access to those files?”

  “Officially, of course not. But I can get them. That’s what you want, right?”

  I thought of many things then. Of my family, of finding the murderers, and what I would do to them. I thought of government license plates and the wispy threat of silenced bullets. I was sure there was more to both cases…some dark reason Gremlin had been killed. Some darker reason my family had been murdered too. And it wouldn’t be the sort of thing that newspapers would cover. It was going to end up being the sort of thing that was only whispered about in hidden rooms and empty hallways where the real underhanded deals were made.

  If I was going to crack this thing, I’d need someone on the inside, a shadow in those hallways.

  There was something going on here. That was why I had come to the Coroner’s office in the first place rather than just accepting that Gremlin was dead and, as a result, the case.

  And that was why the possibility of getting the original Coroner’s files on Sarah and Tommy was too much to ignore.

  “Deal,” I said hesitantly. “But why in the hell are you asking me of all people?”

  “I read about you,” she said, “in that Ellington case. It took balls to nail a case the police wanted buried. That tells me you’re driven and will do whatever it takes.”

  “I guess that’s true,” I said, thinking that it was absolutely true. “But what do you get out of it?”

  She sighed. “I joined the Coroner’s office a year ago after Med School, hoping to make a difference. Did you know almost a quarter of all deaths are incorrectly reported? Sometimes the dead have more answers than the living.” Her eyes shone with enthusiasm for a moment, before she seemed to sag a little. “But I seem to spend my entire time making tea and doing paperwork. Either that, or out here smoking. The chief examiner doesn’t want to give me a shot, the pompous fool. So this is my chance to get involved in a real case.”

  I chuckled at her ambition and honesty. She was tugging at the threads of familiar feelings I had buried a long time ago.

  “Yeah, that sounds familiar. I think we can help each other out.”

  “How long do you need?” she asked.

  I considered my options. “It’s not an exact science. A few days, I guess. I don’t know. Is there a way for me to contact you to keep you posted?”

  “I have your number,” she said. “Most of London has your number. I’ll call you.” And with that she started back towards the main building.

  “Great.” I said to no one in particular as I started to leave. “A city full of corrupt cops, thugs, and killers – all of whom have my details. What could possibly go wrong?”

  Remay paused halfway up the icy concrete steps and called out to me.

  “One of these days this city might surprise you, Blume. It’s not rotten. Not all of it.”

  I looked over my shoulder to reply but she had already gone inside. I decided I would be surprised if this deal actually worked out.

  Could Remay be trusted? Did I have a choice?

  FIVE

  The comfort of familiarity in a world of lies and deceit.

  I swung by Amir’s restaurant just after lunch, not because I was hungry, but because the place helped me focus.

  It was starting to feel like home to me…almost as much as the apartment, which still felt odd at times. I was, after all, technically over three thousand miles from home.

  I was picking at a plate of Kofta that I’d only half eaten and drinking a beer that had gone warm. Behind the bar, the TV showed the news, turned down to a low volume.

  I was going over the details of Nicole Remay’s deal in my head and trying to figure her out when Amir stepped up behind the bar.

  He regarded the beer and frowned. “A bit early, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “It’s after noon. So it’s okay.” I wanted to add, besides, who made you my stand-in mommy, but kept it back. Just. Amir had helped me tremendously when I had arrived in London, and I owed him a great deal. Biting remarks like that would have done nothing but cause a rift between us.

  “You look troubled,” Amir said.

  “Just thinking over some things.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Uh-o
h, what?”

  “Whenever you’re thinking over things it usually means someone is in danger. Usually you, Thomas.”

  I raised my gaze to meet him. “You could be more right than you know”

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  I almost said no. But I also knew that talking things out with a sympathetic ear to listen often helped me to uncover details I sometimes missed while internalizing it all. Amir also knew more about London than anyone else I had met, so with the bar area mostly dead, I leaned forward and quietly spoke about the Ashburn case up to that point. I even included the parts from last night that involved a government car and being shot at.

  “Are you okay?” Amir seemed shocked, suddenly looking over the scratches on my face with great interest.

  “Yeah. I’ve been shot at several times before. But, I might add, I had a gun on those occasions. That’s the one thing that drives me nuts about working here.”

  “You mean that guns aren’t available in every corner shop like they are in the USA? Yeah, it’s a real shame.” It was a lighthearted jab but I could hear the sarcasm dripping off his words.

  I rolled my eyes, not willing to get into that discussion right then and went on. “Anyway…it makes me wonder if Ashburn maybe had Gremlin killed. It makes sense. …But then again, it doesn’t. Not at all.”

  “Why not?” Amir asked. “He wouldn’t want the drug video leaked. Sounds like motivation to me. Case closed.”

  “Yeah, but it would be stupid to do something like that when you already have national attention on you. Way too risky. Besides, Ashburn was beloved by almost everyone. “Mr. Nice Guy.” He doesn’t seem the type.”

  “A nice guy who does cocaine?”

  “I didn’t say he was perfect” I shrugged. “We all have our demons. I just don’t think he is a killer.”

  “So then you don’t think Ashburn was behind it.”

  “No. Not really. I mean, I think maybe someone wants everyone to think that, though. Shit, I don’t know. None of this makes sense.”

  “Shady dealings, my friend,” Amir said. “It’s always like this with politics. Maybe you are better leaving this one alone?” Shady deals always come back to bite people hard on the ass, after all.

  “I just hope I can get to the bottom of it before that happens. Once the media gets a hold of whatever theory they want to mold, it will be harder to deal with it.”

  “Well, how about this Remay lady?” Amir said. “Are you comfortable with her having access to files on your family?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I think she —,”

  I broke off when I noticed a sudden headline come across the TV behind the bar. The reporter was different that the one that had been there moments ago.

  “Can you turn this up?” I asked quickly.

  Amir turned and did as he was asked. As the volume escalated, I read the scrolling text at the bottom of the screen. It told the story without having to hear the reporter. It read: Jonathan Ashburn, M.P. Found Dead.

  The circuits started firing on all processors in my head as I listened to the reporter.

  “…Ashburn’s body, which was discovered in Regent’s Park. While it is too early to make any educated judgments, it seems that he was dead for only a short time before being discovered. Early reports from eyewitnesses indicate that a drug overdose may be to blame, but we’ll have to wait for Police reports for any further information. Again, this morning at approximately 8:15, the body of Jonathan Ashburn, Member of Parliament, was found dead…and now I am being told we’re crossing over to a live press conference with Ashburn’s assistant, Victoria Hargrave.”

  Victoria Hargrave’s face then filled the screen with numerous microphones and cameras surrounding her. She was a slight woman, petite and delicate, with dark hair and pale skin that gave her a pretty yet fragile appearance. Like a bone china figurine one wobble away from breaking.

  And perhaps she was.

  As she wept and proceeded to lament the death of her beloved boss and mentor, the camera flashes of the assembled media popped and snapped, bathing her in an unnatural glare, like a deer in the headlights.

  The woman frequently looked around, seemingly lost amid the chaos.

  She read slowly and carefully from a single piece of crumpled paper that she clutched like her life depended on it. Finally she broke down in tears and was escorted away by a pair of official looking men. The news channel then returned to the studio for more speculation, and I tried to make sense of what I’d just heard.

  “My God,” Amir said, sounding as surprised as I was. He turned the volume back down.

  “I guess that changes things a bit for your case, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said, deep in thought as I swallowed the rest of my beer. “Just a bit.”

  SIX

  The past can be as poisonous as the future.

  Working as a cop in New York had instantly equipped me with a strong distrust of the freelance press. Every time I’d worked a crime scene, particularly homicides or violent assaults, the press would be there in minutes, hovering like vultures for scraps of ruined lives. Nothing sells news like fear, and the media preyed on the psyche of the public, using images of death and destruction to grab attention.

  They’d do whatever was necessary to get the story, even if it meant breaking the law and trampling on people’s rights. They were also loaded with gossip, hoping to gain stature with their peers and their readers or viewers. They were no better than criminals, in my opinion.

  Then I met Sarah, and everything changed.

  I first met the woman who would become my wife not long after she arrived in the U.S. After a string of award-winning articles for The Guardian, The BBC, and other news outlets in the UK, she had been headhunted for an impressive editorial position across the pond.

  That feisty English girl, so far from home, showed me another side of the press. A side filled with hope and drive for a more connected and transparent world. She revealed how true investigative journalism could expose corruption, shine a light onto suffering, and empower the public to take action when things really mattered. She had opened my eyes to the power of the media to bring hope.

  But her first case in the Big Apple had not gone as planned. Sarah had found herself lost and alone and was almost killed chasing that story. She had also met me that day. We would often joke that she wasn’t sure which was more dangerous.

  Now she was gone, and I was the one lost and alone.

  It was because of this memory that I felt the familiar tug of despair when I saw the reporters surrounding the entrance to the park in which Ashburn’s body had been discovered. I tried my best to bury those memories and focus on the job at hand.

  I knew that as a private investigator, I would not be able to get into the park — not for a high profile case like this. But the hell of it was that I had been hired under the table from an anonymous source. If I went into the park claiming that I had been paid to expose a hacking scandal, Id likely be laughed right out of the place.

  I snooped around for a bit and discovered that the press had no further details than the vague information that was on the television. As I spoke to them, I fought against the pangs of sorrow. Sarah had started out as an investigative journalist, and more than a few that I spoke to outside of the park reminded me of her. It was something about the way they carried themselves — the way some of them (the better and more loyal ones, I thought) seemed to have a hunger for the truth even if it was an ugly one.

  I spent an hour or so walking around the outskirts of Regent’s Park – the place was huge and included a famous open-air theatre and a large boating lake. I could see the water was now covered in ice. Colored rowing boats were awkwardly frozen in place near the shore like the decaying bones of an abandoned summer.

  I took all this in, feeling the cold, while the ever-present whisper at the edge of my conscience tugged. The smoky promise of alcohol offered
warmth, a glowing and comfortable numbness I knew too well.

  I eyed a pub across the road, and the smoke grew stronger.

  You have a job to do. Focus. What do you see?

  Dragging my attention back, I noticed that all of the park entrances had been cordoned off with crime scene tape and were being overseen by cops dressed in high visibility winter clothing. I was about to make my second lap, hoping for some new tidbit of information or at least to take my mind off the booze, when suddenly a series of pops and camera flashes drew my attention to the entrance.

  I waded through the hubbub to see that Ashburn’s assistant, Victoria Hargrave, had shown up to pay her respects. She was placing a wreath of flowers near the iron gates.

  The woman seemed even more diminished in person. Her face looked ruddy from crying and her petite frame was wrapped in a somber winter coat. All around, towering cameras and news crews pushed and shoved to capture the scene. They shouted questions and jostled for position, but Hargrave simply stood for a moment looking quietly at the flowers. When she turned and spoke, the crowd quieted.

  “I’m not one for speeches. That was Jonathan’s gift. But I will say that today Britain has lost a great leader and I have lost a great friend. One who can never be replaced.” She then thanked the assembled media before pushing through the throngs back toward the road, where a black taxi idled.

  She seemed genuinely broken up. I was starting to feel sorry for woman when one of the reporters accidentally bumped into Hargrave’s shoulder. Suddenly, for the briefest moment her eyes turned predatory. For a split second I thought she would lash out at the intruder to her personal space.

  Just as quickly the look was gone. She paused, then turned on a heel and climbed into the cab.

  Strange.

  I was considering following Hargrave when my cell phone trilled in my pocket.

  “Hello?”

  “Blume, it’s Remay.”

  “Oh, hey. I guess you know about Ashburn?”