Lee Weeks - Dead of Winter

‘PTSD isn’t a bad mood.’

‘Exactly — it’s a mental disorder where people can kill and not remember. Or they choose to see it another way. This is all according to Davidson and Harding, who was the pathologist at that time. Basically, this is the last thing Davidson wants six months away from retirement. He wants us to go and see Carmichael, talk to him, tell him just enough to see if he has anything useful for us and ask him if he wants to add anything to his original statement; he must have thought things over in all these years. But the main thing is, Davidson wants him contained. If he plays nice we’ll keep him informed; throw him the odd stick to retrieve and pat his head when he does. Go with Harding this morning to Rose Cottage where the Carmichael murders happened. Ask her to fill you in on the background. She did the autopsies that day. According to Robbo she was over-friendly with Davidson at one time.’ Carter smiled. ‘It’s going to kill Davidson if he has to reopen the case. Bet he never thought he’d see this resurface. But you know what they say, Ebb. Shit sticks and bodies float.’

Davidson went to the bathroom next to his office and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Today he had on a deep blue shirt and a darker blue jacket. Grey trousers with a permanent crease. His wife Barbara bought his clothes, but he never thanked her for doing it. Their marriage had lost any ember of excitement. He had long since stopped trying to make her feel treasured or even wanted. Divorce was out of the question. He’d be damned if he’d hand over half of everything. Not at this stage in his life. Barbara could carry on enjoying her benefits as she’d always done. She’d always been happy to take a back seat. He’d worked hard to court business acquaintances outside the Force. Davidson promised himself a life again when he retired. He had a few interesting offers: big corporations that wanted him on their board. He would be travelling a lot, he would be flying first class, staying in top hotels, Barbara wouldn’t want to come. If things had worked out well in the Carmichael case then Davidson wouldn’t have had to work at all after the Police Force. He’d be Commissioner by now and retire on a massive pension. As it was, if things went badly again he would be lucky to get a job delivering groceries after he retired. The thought made him sweat. He splashed cold water onto his face then stood looking at himself in the mirror. Small beads of water still dripped from his sallow skin. Okay. . he’d made mistakes. Just six months until he could retire, for Christ’s sake. But why now did he have to find himself back in the nightmare with Callum Carmichael?

Harding came into the bathroom. She came to stand next to him. The fact they had once slept together gave them a familiarity with each other.

‘Barbara still buying your shirts?’

He turned away, pulled down a paper towel and wiped his face, small precise dabs then went back into his office; she followed. He felt a flash of anger. Once more she had overstepped the mark. Once more he felt the urge to see her naked.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to Rose Cottage this morning?’ He sat down behind his desk.

‘Yes. The owners are sending over a key. Apparently the place has hardly been touched in all these years.’

He stared at her. She knew he wasn’t really listening to her. He was white with rage. She didn’t flinch.

‘You can’t ignore it, John. You can’t stick your head in the sand. .’

‘Thank you for your support in the meeting this morning.’ He was petulant.

They listened to the sound of doors banging: people in the corridor outside his office. The Murder Squad in full work frenzy. It was what they lived for. It was what they did. But Davidson had had enough. He was six months from retiring and every part of his body and soul wanted out now, wanted a new life; he deserved it.

‘It’s no shame to admit the procedures let us down at the time. Everything’s in the open these days,’ Harding said as she sat down across from him. Davidson pursed his lips, leant forward, elbows, forearms on the desk, and pressed his fingertips together. He didn’t answer. He looked at her coldly. She glared back. ‘We did our best with what we had at the time.’ Davidson sighed, annoyed, exasperated; Harding stayed cool: ‘Reopen the Carmichael case, John.’

He flashed her a defiant look. ‘No.’

She persevered. ‘These are different times; transparency is the new gospel of the day.’

‘No. . not transparency, people just want to know every sordid fact, even if they don’t understand it. They won’t care about technical reasons why we didn’t get a conviction in this case. Why should they? The buck will stop with me. . I have everything to lose now. I made the mistake last time of thinking I would come out of it with a bright future ahead. I thought I would take on the case and reap the glory — after all, Carmichael was a war hero and a well respected officer. Carmichael wasn’t even capable of an alibi. It didn’t take long into the investigation for me to realize I had backed the wrong bloody horse.’

Carmichael hauled Jumper’s body out into the snow and stood over it. The wind and snow swirled around him, as if he stood inside a Christmas paperweight that someone had shaken. Sophie had had one in her stocking. It was plastic with a reindeer inside. She had been so excited about Christmas. She came into their bed that last Christmas morning and hugged his neck and he had breathed in her sleepy smell and knowing there would never be a more perfect love. Like the first day he’d held her in his arms, wet from the womb, and he’d vowed to protect her forever.

‘Come on then.’ He had picked her up in his arms and carried her to the window and held her tightly as he opened the curtain very gradually. Sophie had held her breath for a few seconds as she pressed her palms to the cold glass and then gasped. Outside the snow was falling.

Now the sky and the ground merged as the blizzard swirled around him and the dead sheep. He knelt beside Jumper and picked up handfuls of snow, his bloody hand leaving red prints on the white ground. He took out the knife from his belt and began skinning her.

Sandford looked down from the window in the master bedroom at Blackdown Barn and watched the young policeman on duty at the gate. It was starting to snow again. The officer outside had been there since seven. It was mid-morning now. Inside the house it had fallen quiet. His SOCO team of four were spread out throughout the house, conducting grid searches in each room. He tapped on the window and the young officer turned around. Sandford made a T-sign with his fingers and the officer grinned and nodded. Just as Sandford turned back from the window his eye was drawn up to the corner of the room and something sparkling there. He stood on the stepladder to reach into the corner of the ceiling cornice. A staple was punctured into the plaster. He picked out the mini pliers from his tool belt and gently wiggled it free. With the staple came a tiny fragment of plastic sheeting. He looked at it on the edge of the pliers. He held it in his hand and phoned Robbo.

‘What’s the thickness?’ Robbo asked.

‘I would say one mil. PVC.’ Sandford looked along the ceiling. ‘Puncture marks every metre.’

‘Okay,’ answered Robbo. ‘Rolls of plastic sheeting, one mil by a metre. I’ll find the manufacturers and get samples. How’s it looking out there? You dismantled the whole house yet?’

‘Yeah, funny. . nearly. We’re going to start digging up the basement today. Needed to get some results back from the gym equipment enquiry first.’

‘Yeah, I followed it up. There was a runner, a multi-gym, and an exercise bike down there. What’s the flooring?’