Snow Light

by Danielle Zinn

  The house, which had once belonged to a clock-maker’s family, used to have a workshop at the back and a showroom at the front. The only reminders of those days were the two large front windows facing the street.

  Thomas had adorned these windows and his entire house with Christmas decorations that were both unique and traditional for the area, and could be found nowhere else in the world.

  Turtleville was a small and tranquil village in the middle of the Ore Mountains, with the Bohemian border only some fifteen miles away. The area was rich in history, tradition, and culture, though by now, many young people had left the region to find jobs and a broader range of entertainment in the bigger cities. Every Christmas, however, the emigrants remembered their roots and returned home to this magical place, leaving the busy city life behind and reliving their childhood memories.

  In long and profound conversations, Thomas had learnt from his opposite neighbour, Richard Cunningham, that mineral resources such as silver, tin, and copper, had been found in the Ore Mountains, attracting miners from both sides of the border since the fourteenth century. During WWII, Richard’s father and his colleagues even mined uranium for the head of state’s attempt to build an atomic bomb. With the beginning of the nineties, though, all mining operations had been closed, as production had simply become too expensive.

  Richard had explained vividly how miners always had to endure harsh conditions. Below ground the paths were narrow and low, and miners had to crawl most of the time. In this cold and humid atmosphere, rock dust quickly settled on their lungs, making them ill. Working long shifts for low pay meant they entered the mine early in the morning, when it was still dark outside, and left late in the evening, when the sun had long settled on the horizon. But to allow them at least some light, fellow citizens crafted wooden arches with candles on top and put them in their windows to illuminate the miners’ journeys home.

  The arch is both a symbol for the entrance to the mine as well as a source of comfort and light in the dark season of the year. The tradition has been kept alive and all citizens of the Ore Mountains proudly put light arches in every window of their houses from the beginning of December until the end of January, immersing the villages in a soft and calming orange glow.

  In the beginning, Thomas was highly sceptical of this custom, not only because as a newcomer he had to buy light arches for some twenty windows — a very costly tradition, as it turned out — but also because he could not imagine what good it would do as no miners were walking down the streets anymore.

  Richard and his wife, Allison, who treasured some handmade arches from their great-grandparents, helped him distinguish between the cheap Chinese versions and the locally made original ones.

  He felt it a must-do; otherwise, he feared getting kicked out of this place in his first year. Luckily, candles were no longer required and had been replaced by small light bulbs set around the arch, with typical features of mining life carved into the middle of the wood.

  An unwritten law demanded that the arches be switched on at precisely five o’clock every evening, and Thomas got himself some support from time switches, for the days when he was away.

  The house instantly glowed like a beacon in the dark winter night, though, in a very warm and comforting way. The light calmed him down, soothing some of the uneasiness he felt in the looming unknown of the gathering darkness. It was a feeling he could not quite shake since that fateful night, and by now he even looked forward to proudly switching on his arches every evening — a definite reason for not leaving this village any time soon.

  Now the house was dark and quiet.

  From the landing, he tiptoed down the broad staircase leading into his spacious living area.

  Looking at the empty corner in his lounge, he realised that he still had to get a Christmas tree… preferably sooner rather than later, to avoid ending up with the gnarled and lopsided leftovers like the previous year. Thomas immediately put it on his mental to-do list.

  At the door he put on his navy-blue parka, winter boots, hat, and gloves and left a note on the kitchen table for Sky, in case he wasn’t back by the time she got up. He still felt slightly sick from his dream and he left without breakfast.

  It had been snowing consistently for the last twenty-four hours, but through the front door he could see that the snowfall had finally eased up a little. Only some scattered flakes were peacefully dancing in the light of the streetlamp.

  Thomas opened the door, and about five inches of fluffy snow toppled inside. He was slowly growing tired of shovelling the white powder away several times a day. By now, all the piles that he had built on any spot available on his ground had grown higher than he was tall, and he was quickly running out of space — though, it was a great workout. All in all, Thomas cleared four paths every day: one from the front door straight down to the gate mainly for the postman, Sky, and visitors; another one from the front door to the left-hand side leading to the trash bins; and to the right-hand side to the garage; and a last path led from the patio to the shed, where he stored his firewood. He needed to abandon at least one of those pathways and would decide during the day which one it would have to be.

  The Turtleville marketplace, where, according to Sexton, the murder had taken place, was just around the corner from the electronics store at the end of ‘his’ alleyway, so he decided to walk there.

  The last time he had shovelled snow had been at around six in the evening and now, close to three-thirty a.m., he had to trudge through a good foot of fresh powder yet again. At the gate, he turned right and walked down the small deserted street. The air smelt of winter and spruce trees.

  Although he was bundled up in an immense winter parka, he felt the biting Ore Mountain cold on his skin, and his breath puffed in the crisp air.

  Thomas was not sure what to expect when he turned the corner, and he balled his gloved hands into fists, bracing himself for whatever was awaiting him.

  3

  GIANT spots illuminated the centre of the market square, where a good dozen people bustled around. Whether it was to keep them warm or was related to the job they were doing, Thomas could not tell.

  Half of the area was rather a small park with a handful of sycamore trees, shrubs, and a walkway. The other half was cobblestoned, and every Wednesday in spring and summer, vendors would set up small tents to sell everything from vegetables to homemade pottery.

  In the winter, though, a three-storey, turning pyramid — another relic from Ore Mountain history — was put up in the middle of the square. On the Sunday before Christmas, the church choir would assemble here and sing Christmas carols with the illuminated pyramid casting a gentle light over the crowd. Now the light was off, and the pyramid was not turning; yet it was here that everybody had gathered.

  Thomas made out the constables from St Anna Police Station, the office closest to Turtleville. Some other people in the crowd he had seen before in the village, but could not quite place them, mainly because they all looked the same with their knitted caps pulled low over their faces. But one person he immediately recognised was the retired chief constable, Robert Myers — a stout man with a round face and double chin.

  Thomas pushed his way through the little crowd to the front and ducked under the yellow crime scene tape. The mumbling behind him receded when he looked up at the pyramid. What he saw made him gasp, but at the same time, a feeling of authority and being in control again flooded through his body.

  Thomas found the eyes of Robert Myers. “Who is he?” he asked.

  “Ethan Wright,” Myers replied.

  A young constable carefully approached Thomas. “We were told to wait for you, sir. Until now, we have just cordoned off the area and called forensics and the pathologist. They should be here soon.”

  “Thank you.” Thomas wondered if this was the first body the young guy had seen on the job. If so, he’d had a fairly rough start. Thomas turned to the small gathering, and the busyness faded. In situations like these, his height
had always been an advantage.

  “My name is Detective Inspector Nathaniel Thomas, and I am the senior officer in this murder investigation. Who found the body?”

  A young guy in thin, white trousers and a grey, worn winter jacket stepped forward. He was hugging himself to keep warm. Thomas looked down at him quizzically. “And you are—?”

  “Daniel Davis.”

  “What were you doing outside at this time of night?”

  “Baker’s apprentice. Shift started at three a.m. I’m late already. Can I leave now? Really need this job.”

  “A constable will talk to your boss. Where do you live, Daniel?”

  “Behind pharmacy.” Thomas could not stand these half sentences and clipped answers — a custom of the younger generation in the village. He briefly wondered if this was taught at school; he’d have to ask Sky.

  “And you work at the bakery up the street?”

  “Didn’t know there was another one.”

  Thomas bent down a little. “Listen, I know you probably had a different start to your day in mind, and I’m sorry you had to see this, but either you answer my questions now in some more detail or I’ll take you to the station right away and nobody will inform your boss. The choice is yours. Make it now.”

  The lad bit his lower lip. “I always leave home at two forty-five a.m. and walk across the marketplace up to the bakery. But today it was different somehow. I had a weird feeling like someone was watching me. And when I looked up, I saw… this.” He gestured wildly in the direction of the pyramid.

  “All right. When you saw him, what did you do?”

  The boy shifted uneasily and pushed some snow aside with his foot. Thomas put his large hand reassuringly on Daniel’s thin shoulders. “If I were you, this would have scared the shit out of me.”

  The boy nodded. “It was so eerily quiet. I ran home and woke my dad, and he called the police.”

  “Now this is really important, Daniel. When you got to the marketplace, did you see or hear anybody?”

  He shook his head.

  “Think about it, please. A car? Someone on foot maybe?”

  “No, there was nothing. It was deadly silent.”

  “Were there any footprints or tyre prints in the snow?” Thomas pressed.

  Again, the boy shook his head. “It had snowed all night. There were no prints.”

  “Go to the constable over there, and tell him how we can get in touch with you. Your address, phone number. Then you are free to leave. We will need you to come to St Anna Police Station, though, to sign your statement.”

  The boy nodded and trudged off.

  Two black cars and a minivan pulled into the market square. Thomas walked over to greet the forensic team and the pathologist from St Anna, Laura Wilson. She was a middle-aged woman; her short blonde hair covered by a bright red knitted cap, making her easily recognisable amidst the dark-clothed officers. He had worked with her on a couple of occasions in the past, and they greeted each other amicably.

  Then they all put on the obligatory white plastic overalls. Thomas took a spare one and handed it to Myers. “You knew him. I’d like your opinion on this, please.”

  Together they stood in front of the three-storey wooden pyramid, glancing from top to bottom. The uppermost level showed various animals of the forest: squirrels, deer, and stags. In the middle part, miners carrying hammers, mallets, and ores, were looking down at them questioningly. And on the lowest level, some three-foot-tall wood-carved figures displayed different occupational groups from a bygone era; the paint showing the glance of past days.

  Amidst them sat a hunched human figure with bent knees, bum on his feet. Snow had covered him like a blanket and built a cusp-cap on his head. He was not wearing any winter gear or a jacket — only slippers, black tracksuit bottoms, and a thin, grey, long-sleeved shirt.

  The victim was slumped between a hunter with his dog and a night guard — whose knees the man’s head was resting on, and who was glowering down at him angrily. Thomas could also make out carvings of a lumberjack, a mushroom picker, and a shepherd.

  It seemed they all curiously eyed the pitiful, out-of-place human figure whose eyes were wide open and horror-stricken, his complexion a pale-bluish colour from the cold. He had thin, matted grey hair and a gaunt face. His hands were folded in his lap like he was begging the night guard for mercy, but the guard only held on to his lamp and halberd.

  Thomas, Myers, and the pathologist looked at the frozen bundle kneeling at their eye level while the forensic team waited patiently in the background for their go-ahead.

  “What’s this?” Thomas pointed to a shiny metal stick with a pistol-like grip protruding from the victim’s chest. A dark red, almost blackish circle of frozen blood had leaked out of the wound and stained the grey shirt.

  “Looks like half of an epee to me,” Myers answered with a furrowed brow.

  “Half of an epee? What do you mean?” Thomas asked incredulously.

  “An epee is a weapon used in fencing… the sport. It’s about forty-three inches long. What we see here looks like a broken epee because apparently there is no exit wound at his back,” Myers explained.

  “So, you just have to find someone who has a connection to fencing. Shouldn’t be too hard in this small village,” Laura said, looking alternately from Thomas to Myers, who raised his eyebrows.

  “You know,” he started slowly, “it’s actually not that easy.”

  Thomas looked down at him inquiringly.

  “There is a fencing club just across the border; the people of Bohemia are avid fencers. Plus, there are some villagers who fenced in their youth, until our club was closed. And then, of course, there is Dobson.”

  “I have read the name Dobson somewhere in the village,” Thomas replied, racking his brain. “What is it he does for a living?”

  “Vincent Dobson manufactures some of the parts needed for the tip of an epee,” Myers replied. Thomas kept his eyes fixated on him, forcing him to explain more.

  He continued, “Every epee consists of different parts. I have never fenced myself, so I can’t tell you the details, but Vincent builds the movable tip, which is housed in what is called a barrel. You’ll have to ask him, though, what it is he does exactly.”

  “Is that the factory building on the main road to Screen Mountain?” Thomas asked.

  Myers nodded. “He employs some thirty people and sells to suppliers of fencing equipment worldwide.”

  “All right,” Thomas said, turning to Laura, “what can you tell me about the time and cause of death?”

  “At first sight, I would say the epee has been rammed into his chest, maybe right through his heart. I can confirm that later. Looks like it was not removed and rammed in a second time —one stroke must have been enough to kill him. This was a slow and cruel death. From what I can see, he did not fight back much; there are no scratch marks on his skin or nails, and he has no other obvious injuries. And he did not try to pull the epee out either; there is no blood on his hands. The way they are folded in his lap, he appears resigned to his fate. Time of death is only a guess: between ten p.m. and two a.m., but I can tell you more once I have him on my examination table… and once he’s defrosted. If possible, sir,” Laura said, turning towards Thomas, “I would ask you to leave the epee in his body the way it is at the moment. I would like a closer look at the entry wound before it is pulled out.”

  “Of course.” Thomas nodded.

  A red Mini skidded to a stop behind the police cars, loud music blaring. Thomas looked skyward, wondering what terrible crime he had committed recently to be punished with Detective Sergeant Ann Collins. Sexton was most likely testing the remains of his investigation and patience capabilities after his year-long break from the Homicide Department.

  He had successfully worked with Collins on a couple of cases in the past, mainly because he was forced to do so by Sexton, but her snobbish behaviour and stubbornness had sent him through the roof many times.

 
; “She needs a change of air,” were the superintendent’s words; which rather meant, “all the officers over here are so fed up with her that it’s your turn now.”

  Sexton and Collins, on the other hand, got along swimmingly — mainly because they had both spent a considerable amount of their youth roaming the streets of Turnden, coming into contact with drugs, alcohol, and the law. In the end, it was Sexton who had taken her under his wing, sent her to the police academy, and given her a job at the Criminal Investigation Department — just as Sexton’s mentor, the late superintendent, had done with him.

  However, not even the almighty Graham Sexton could always control his protégée, and when he was at his wits’ end, he sent her back to the streets, in uniform, to control traffic.

  DS Collins remained difficult to work with and did not mince her words; nevertheless, she was one of the most brilliant researchers and observers in the entire department, which was probably the only reason justifying her stay. Due to her charmless appearance, people tended to ignore Collins, allowing her to collect essential details that otherwise went unnoticed.

  Thomas felt his patience being tested for a second time that morning; before the sun had even cast its first gentle light over the hills and trees.

  Collins got out of her car and stormed past the DI. She was in her early thirties and looked classy, wearing black thermal trousers, beige sheepskin boots, and a red parka — its hood rimmed with thick fake fur. Her long, straight black hair was tucked away under a grey, pink, and white striped hat with a fluffy pompom. Sexton must have told her about the weather conditions.

  Hands in pockets, she pushed her way through the constables and forensic team, not greeting one of them. In front of the pyramid she stopped and briefly looked at the body, but showed no sign of uneasiness.

  Thomas had followed her quietly and stood right behind her when she turned to march off in the direction she had come from. She nearly bumped into him, but regained her balance not a moment too soon, and for the first time Thomas saw her speechlessly staring up at him — a moment he would savour forever.