The Big Snow

by David Park

  According to him, Alma had always been a girl who went her own way, lived her own life, didn’t bother much with the rest of the family. He had separated from his wife, who was now living in Australia, while Alma’s two sisters were in England. Simons had never even been to her house. She phoned him a couple of times a month at work, saw him at Christmas – that sort of thing. That was the way she wanted it and he went along with it. He didn’t think she was working – the only job he’d been aware of in recent times was a period she’d spent working as a machinist in Gallahers. There was no husband, never was, but she always seemed to have some fella on the go, was his way of describing it. He didn’t know where she got the money for the house. Nor did he know any of the names of her past or current boyfriends.

  Simons sat on the chair and stared at the floor. Swift signalled to the constables at the end of the corridor. One of them was surreptitiously smoking a cigarette and when he saw Swift he stubbed it out under his foot. As they came towards them, their heels gnawed at the silence that had settled. Swift took the photograph out of his pocket and handed it to the man sitting beside him.

  ‘What age was she when this was taken? he asked. ‘Eleven or twelve – it was taken on a day out to Bangor,’ Simons said, holding the snapshot against the lid of his lunch-box. ‘The swings round at Ballyholme.’

  ‘It’s a nice picture,’ Swift said.

  ‘She was always smiling as a girl. Always up to something. You couldn’t watch her but there wasn’t any badness in her, no badness in her.’

  ‘No,’ Swift said, nodding in agreement. Then he turned the photograph over. ‘Do you recognize that address?’ he asked. Simons looked at it but shook his head. ‘Can I keep the photo?’ he asked. When Swift said yes, he opened the lunch-box, tipped what few crumbs were in it into the palm of his hand, placed them in the pocket of his jacket, then stored the photograph carefully in the box. As Swift watched the man follow the two policemen down the corridor, he stayed on his seat. After they had gone he took a piece of paper from his pocket and wrote the address down. While he did so, he saw in his mind the image of a young girl riding higher and higher on a swing. A girl with no badness in her. He sat stone still until somewhere deeper in the cavernous, echoing building, a door slammed.

  When Swift arrived back at the station there were reporters standing in huddles close to the front desk. When he entered they turned to look at him and, remembering Gracey’s instruction, he prepared to rebuff their approaches. ‘No comment’ – that was what they said in films in situations like this but he was given no opportunity to utter it, as almost immediately the reporters turned back to their conversations. Behind the desk Maguire was bouncing on the balls of his feet and grinning from ear to ear. When he spoke, his tone was that of a genial hotelier pleased to see his establishment so busy. ‘Nothin’ like a murder for bringing out the crowds, Swifty boy,’ he said, nodding and smiling at a new arrival and although no one had asked him anything, ‘Please, gentlemen, as soon as we have any developments you’ll be the first to know. Don’t block the door, please.’ Then, putting his hand to the side of his mouth to announce he wished to pass on a secret, he whispered to Swift, ‘They’re bringin’ him in, any minute. No one can say that Gracey hangs about. It’s probably only the snow that’s keepin’ them. They found the taxi firm that delivered him to the house – driver knows him and all. Works as a barman down at the Silver Crown. Here, Swifty boy, if you ever decide to murder someone, don’t take a taxi. Get on yer bike instead.’ Maguire laughed at his own joke, then repeated his plea that the station door be kept clear.

  There was the sound of a car outside and the huddles of reporters turned into a tightly wedged scrum in their attempt to push out through the doors. Some of the lighter ones were flopped aside like little fish as they encountered the great wave of Gracey coming in the opposite direction. ‘Stand back, now, we’re comin’ through,’ Gracey’s voice boomed, and in his wake Burns trailed the handcuffed figure of a man dressed in a white shirt and jeans, with a black leather jacket draped over his shoulders. His dark hair was oiled and quiffed. ‘Can’t answer any questions just at the moment, but as soon as we have anything you’ll be the first to know,’ Gracey said, stopping to wave Burns and his prisoner past him and through the doors that led to the cells. Swift followed and watched the suspect being placed in the interview room. Gracey and Burns came back out into the corridor and Burns lit a cigarette. The sudden smell of sulphur and smoke made Swift blink. He had been around Burns for a couple of weeks but it was only now he noticed the skein of nicotine on his fingers, the way he held the cigarette at a distance from his body between his thumb and forefinger, which made it look as if he was minding it for somebody else. Gracey put his fingers to his eyes as if they were sore, then towelled his face with both palms before ambling off down the corridor.

  ‘Not much of a case,’ said Burns, dragging at the cigarette. ‘Not much of a chase.’

  ‘He’s confessed, then,’ Swift said.

  ‘He will, he will,’ Burns said, ‘just as soon as Gracey gives him the squeeze.’

  ‘So he’s denying it.’

  ‘Of course he is. Fair enough – it’s what they do. But stay around and watch, Swifty boy, watch Gracey give him the squeeze. Before the night’s out he’ll be singing like a canary. Signing on the dotted line and thankin’ us for the opportunity.’

  ‘The squeeze?’ Swift said, remembering Gracey’s eyes meeting his as he brought the truncheon down. ‘Knock him around a bit, you mean?’

  Burns laughed and smoke streamed from his mouth. ‘You’re a gag Swifty – been watching those American gangster films again? Gracey won’t lay a finger on him – he won’t need to. And if he was going to, he’d have done it long before he reached the station.’

  ‘So where’s Gracey now?’ Swift asked, turning his head away from the smoke.

  ‘Probably gone somewhere to put his feet up,’ Burns answered. ‘Nothin’s goin’ to happen here for a good while yet. All part of the game. Let the bastard sweat it out for a while. Let him stew in his juices. There’s nothin’ they hate more than starin’ at those four walls.’

  Burns suddenly dropped the cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with his foot as through the doors came the Head Constable. Swift silently blew the smoke away from the front of his face and stood straighter.

  ‘Detective Constable Burns, I hope you’re not trying to live up to your name. Not trying to burn down the station,’ the Head said.

  ‘No, sir,’ Burns replied, standing to attention.

  ‘Where’s Gracey?’ he asked

  ‘Gone to the toilet, sir,’ Burns said. ‘It’s the cold, sir.’

  ‘And who’s this standing at your shoulder?’

  ‘Detective Constable Swift, sir – on probation.’

  ‘And they put you with Gracey, then. You could learn a lot, son – some of it you’ll be better forgetting, though.’ Swift nodded but didn’t know if he should speak or not. The Head Constable pointed to the door of the interview room with his blackthorn stick. ‘So the boy’s in here?’ he asked. ‘Is he our man?’

  ‘Guilty as hell, sir,’ said Burns.

  ‘That’s good. I want it all tied up nice and clean – no loose ends to unravel in court. I’ll give the press boys something to run with in the morning papers,’ he said as he turned back down the corridor. Halfway along he paused and turned. ‘Any more progress on that Reynolds case? The paintings ever turn up?’

  ‘No, sir, not yet but I’m still working on it,’ Burns said.

  ‘Well keep on – Reynolds is an important man. Need some progress soon.’

  When the swing doors shut behind him Burns cursed him under his breath, then looked for the cigarette he had stubbed out. ‘Bloody memory like an elephant,’ he complained, ‘never lets you forget that he’s on your case. Thinks it keeps you on your toes.’ Swift was impatient to see the suspect but didn’t feel able to simply walk into the interview room without a bett
er reason. He watched while Burns opened their office door, sat at the table and started to write up his notebook, then followed him in. ‘What was that old biddy’s name from next door?’ Burns asked. Swift told him, then asked about the man they’d just brought in and Burns, glad of the excuse to give up his writing, set aside his pen and leaned back on the chair. ‘His name’s Johnny Linton – he’s a barman in the Silver Crown. Used to play in some dance band till they split. He’s been knockin’ round with her for about six months. Bit of a pretty boy – younger than her. Cried his little eyes out when we said she was dead – impressive he was, I’ll give him that. Admits he was there last night, admits they had a row but strangely enough wants to insist that she was hale and hearty when he left. I’ll enjoy watchin’ Gracey givin’ him the squeeze. The bastard deserves it – he’s a fuckin’ nancy boy.’

  Burns went back to his writing, screwing up his face and staring at the ceiling while he sought to remember the details of his earlier interview. Gracey entered, pulling up his trousers and checking his flies. ‘Listen, Swift,’ he said, ‘this might take some time and we’ve all missed our teas so what about nippin’ round to Spence’s and bringin’ back three fish suppers? I’d send one of the men but you know what Maguire’s like. What do you say? My treat.’ He threw a crumpled pound note on the table, then sat down opposite Burns. As Swift looked at the money Gracey added, ‘Salt and vinegar, plenty of vinegar.’ Swift hesitated, then picked up the money but paused at the table before asking, ‘Does Linton have a cut or scratch on his face?’ Gracey and Burns looked at him. Burns snorted. Gracey said, ‘Now, Swifty, what did I say about lookin’ for clues and all that kind of stuff? And as far as I know, he doesn’t, so I suppose he didn’t do it and we should let him go.’ ‘I was just wondering,’ Swift said, ‘that’s all. She could have broken her nails on some part of him other than his face.’ ‘Maybe we should inspect his dick,’ Burns said without taking his eyes from his writing.

  When he returned Swift tried to hide the embarrassment of his parcel as he walked through the flagging gaggle of reporters, but the smell seeped out from under his coat and identified the contents to everyone. Maguire raised an eyebrow, then busied himself writing in one of his ledgers. When Gracey saw him he said, ‘Good man, good man,’ then ripped open the wrapping of newspapers. Swift handed him the change and when Gracey asked him why he hadn’t got anything for himself said he wasn’t hungry. ‘Suit yourself,’ Gracey said plucking a piece of his fish and cramming it in his mouth, his fingers soon shiny with the heat and grease. ‘Can I sit in during the interview?’ Swift asked. He watched Burns hold a fat yellow chip level with his head then lower it into his mouth like a seal being fed a piece of fish. ‘So long as you don’t say anything, that’s all, don’t distract him. And when I say, leave and stay left,’ Gracey answered.

  It seemed to take the two men a long time to finish their meal. He watched them wipe their hands on the papers, saw the smear of ink it left on their skin. The room stank of the chips, damp wool, the rubber of their boots and the day’s sweat. Swift started to feel sick.

  ‘Have you ever felt passionate enough about a woman to kill her?’ Gracey asked.

  ‘Have you ever just felt a woman?’ Burns added.

  ‘A woman nearly killed me once,’ Gracey said. ‘Back in the fifties during the IRA campaign. A good-looker she was, too. Walked into Hastings Street barracks, cool as ice, and left the suitcase. We were lucky we didn’t all go up. The boy on the desk said she had this real invitin’ smile.’

  ‘Invitin’ you to Hell,’ said Burns, licking his fingers.

  ‘OK,’ Gracey said, taking off his overcoat, ‘let’s get the job done.’

  When they entered the interview room Gracey dismissed the uniformed constable and Burns sat on his chair with his notebook ready. There was only one other chair, so Swift went and stood in the corner. The room had no furniture other than the chair and table where Linton sat, his arms stretched across the bare wood. Gracey didn’t take the seat opposite him but stood slumped against the wall, his head angled and, it seemed, looking at Linton with only one eye. For about a minute he didn’t speak, as if he was waiting for someone else to start. When he began it was with a series of staccato factual questions uttered in a low monotone which suggested he wasn’t particularly interested in the answers and required Linton to state his full name, his address and work place, how long he had known Alma Simons and so on. Swift watched Linton answer, saw his nervousness, his apparent desire to be helpful. The oiled sheen of his thick quiff of hair contrasted with the hollow pallor of his skin, and there was something finely honed about his features that made his facial movements seem almost feline. It was a face that was unmarked except by his present fear and his blue eyes flicking constantly round the three faces, searching for what they were thinking, or for some glimmer of a sympathetic disposition.

  There was another long pause in Gracey’s questions and then he moved himself slowly off the wall and sat down at the table and looked Linton in the face for the first time. ‘Listen, son,’ he said, ‘there’s only two roads stretchin’ in front of us now and you need to decide which one you’re goin’ down. Now I’ve been sittin’ in this chair for enough years to be able to tell you that the shortest and least painful road is always the truth.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her, Mister, honest to God I didn’t kill her,’ Linton said, his voice warping and wavering.

  ‘No, son, don’t talk, just listen to what I’m saying to you now, for I’m trying my best to help you, because it’s my job to reach the truth and it doesn’t matter how long that takes and you have to understand that nothin’ ever stops me reachin’ it. Look at me, son, look at me and listen to what I’m tryin’ to tell you. Trust me, trust me with the truth, for it’s the only way now for all of us, and if you tell me the truth I’m goin’ to give you my solemn word that I’ll do my very best to look after you, for I know you didn’t mean to kill that girl and I’ll speak for you.’

  ‘Please God, I didn’t kill her,’ Linton said.

  ‘No, son, don’t speak, don’t say any more,’ Gracey said. ‘Shush, son, shush now, just think about what I’ve said to you, just think about it.’ Then he stood up and walked to the door, glancing at Burns, who closed his book and quietly followed. In the corridor Swift could see Gracey beckoning him. As he went to leave his eyes met Linton’s, just for a second, but long enough to see the blue wash of fear and the first of his tears. In the corridor Gracey said, ‘We’ll give him twenty minutes, then go back in,’ then ploughed a hand through his hair and muttered, ‘I have a bad feeling about this one. Sometimes when they’re as weak as this jessie there’s nothin’ to push against; sometimes they just lose their head and then they’re charging round like a headless chicken, talkin’ nothin’ but bloody gibberish.’

  Swift went back to the office and on impulse phoned his father to check how he was. As always his father’s voice was edged with suspicion, his tentative ‘Hello’ edged with an aversion to speaking to whoever had chosen to intrude into the privacy of his home. Yes he was fine and his daily had lit the fire and yes there was plenty of food in the house. But the roads were already closed, the village cut off, so there’d be nothing in or out until the thaw started. The conversation lumbered awkwardly along familiar lines, stumbling into little drifts of silence. In the heart of one of these Swift thought of telling him that he was investigating a murder but hesitated and when Gracey and Burns entered the office said a hurried goodbye. The two men sat down at the table and for a while no one spoke until Gracey turned to him and said, ‘There’s no need for you to sit this out, Swifty – it could take a long time, so if you want to pack it in for the day that’s OK.’ ‘I’d like to stay,’ Swift said. Gracey shrugged and told him to suit himself.

  When they went back to the interview room each of the three men occupied his previous position. Gracey had opened the collar of his shirt and loosened his tie, but everything else looked as it had twenty minutes
before. ‘So then, son,’ Gracey said, ‘what’s it to be?’ Linton stared at the table and repeated his innocence but in response Gracey said only, ‘That’s not what I wanted to hear,’ then sat in sombre silence. In such silences Swift felt self-conscious, intensely aware of the slightest of his movements, the rustle of his clothes, even his breathing. He knew that Gracey used them to turn the screws a little more tightly, that under their icy weight words sometimes tumbled out in a desperate desire to escape the unbearable strain. At times Swift started to imagine his own guilt, turned in on himself the way a hellfire preacher confronts each of his listeners with the terrible burden of guilt. Truth was presented to Linton as his only route to redemption, the only way to ease the pain, his one opportunity to put things right. But Linton wasn’t buying this escape and he sat at the table shaking his head slowly from side to side, locked into a rhythmic denial of Gracey’s appeals.

  Gracey stood up and walked to the side of the table, then collapsed his bulk so that his mouth was close to Linton’s ear. Tuck you, Johnny boy,’ he whispered. Linton ducked his head as if he expected the words to be followed by a blow but none came. What came was the squeeze. The only thing that Swift had ever seen that bore any resemblance to what he now witnessed was a cat playing with a mouse. There was the same leisured infliction of damage, the pleasured tossing and turning, the brief teasing moments when the possibility of escape seemed on offer. It began with Gracey asking Linton how long he’d been ‘ridin’ her, then moved to detailed questions about their sex life that made Swift squirm. How often, the where and the when, the how, what she liked, and when Linton failed to answer, or claimed he couldn’t remember, Gracey painted some possibilities for him, each one more lurid and grotesque than the last. To every question there had to be a response and every question pushed Linton deeper into humiliation and self-loathing. Swift felt the dryness in his throat, and his hands pressed against the lime-green walls of the room which always looked as if they were wet. It was the colour of the slime in the boy’s hair he had helped pull from the water. He felt sick again. He thought of his father padding round the empty house of his retirement, his slippered shuffle almost silent and of the snow pressing down on the roof and against the windows like a stranger seeking admittance. He still had a room in the house, the same room that had been his as a boy, high up under the roof. Why did the house always seem too big? Why had he believed as a small boy that other people lived in it besides his mother, father and himself? Invisible people who slipped in and out of the shadows, moved mysteriously and malevolently through the empty spaces. One day the house would be his, one day he would be his father and then he thought of the twisted body of Alma Simons waiting for him to find it and he shivered into the present.