Lee Weeks - Dead of Winter

‘You’ve done well to get into the Murder Squad so quickly.’

‘I have a degree in Criminal Justice and Law. I think that helped.’ Ebony was feeling like the inexperienced copper she was. Carter must have known it would be like this. Why had he sent her on her own?

‘There are lots of people with degrees but not everyone knows how to make them count in police work — or in everyday life.’ He finished eating his stew before her and he sat back in his chair and watched her eat. She never left food. Carmichael continued to scrutinize her. ‘So you could have chosen to go into a career in Crime Analysis instead or in Profiling? You could have gone into the law side of things?’

‘I could have.’

‘But you chose to go for less pay and longer hours and join the force?’ For a minute he thought she wasn’t going to answer; he could see her mind mulling things over. You could never accuse her of being loose-tongued. That was an admirable quality in Carmichael’s books. He hated pointless chatter. He lived most of his life in silence out of choice. It seemed to him that he was the one asking the questions. She looked at him, her expression unchanged:

‘I wanted a challenge.’

Carmichael smiled. ‘Fair enough. What about your family? You’re mixed race, aren’t you?’ She nodded as she dipped her bread into the stew. ‘I know the name. . Willis. . you’re the officer whose mother was convicted of murder? I read about it.’

She looked up and saw his eyes drilling into her.

‘Yes.’

‘Finished?’ He stood and took her plate from her and stacked the dishes in the sink. She stared at his back. She wondered what he would ask her about it and what she would say when he did. But, when he turned back she could see he’d finished with the subject.

‘Great stew,’ she thanked him.

‘One of my lambs.’ Ebony wondered if it had had a name. ‘This way. .’ He picked up a basket of logs and led the way into the sitting room. Apart from a sofa and an armchair, the only other piece of furniture was a desk in the corner. The fireplace dominated the room, ancient, imposing. A massive oak beam framed it. Carmichael stacked the logs either side of it. To the left of the fireplace was the doorway to the upstairs, to the right was a dresser. On it were several books about farming, lambing, looking after sheep. There was one about the Yorkshire Dales. There was another about medical procedures in the field. The History of War . The Times Atlas had a shelf all to itself. There were travel books about South America, Argentina. Above all the books she saw a photo of his wife and child. She recognized it from the case file.

He knew that she was looking at it. ‘What do you want to ask me?’ He began cracking small twigs for kindling.

‘In the last twenty-four hours there’s been a murder on the outskirts of London. We found a print that matches one at the cottage where your wife and child were killed.’

There was a pause of several seconds. Carmichael began constructing the fire: stacking the kindling against paper rolls.

‘Do you have a name?’ He reached to his right and pulled a long spill from a holder.

‘No. . We just have a match.’

‘Where?’ He picked a lighter from the dresser and lit the spill.

‘Northwest London.’

‘I said where?’ He paused and half turned towards her but did not look at her.

‘A converted barn near Totteridge.’

He lit the tight wads of newspaper beneath the kindling and fanned the flame, then he picked up two large logs from the side of the massive grate and propped them against the kindling. He rested an elbow on one knee as he watched the growing flame. The light from the fire cast harsh shadows in his lined face. For a big man his body moved gracefully. His hands were precise and quick as they moved to catch the flame and fan the fire. Ebony noticed that kind of thing. She was the opposite: always clumsy. She always felt awkward. Her bones were big, gangly. Her hands and feet were large. Her broad shoulders were too wide for summer dresses and petite pretty clothes. She should have been a runner. She should have been a basketball player; her dad was athletic. Her mum was academic. But her mum hadn’t been clever when it came to choosing men and her dad hadn’t run away fast enough.

‘How many bodies?’

‘Two. . a woman and her baby.’

He moved the smouldering sticks into the flame. She had read his file: there was nothing Carmichael hadn’t seen in the world; there was no nasty experience he hadn’t been through. He was a methodical killer, a man who could kill to order. He could go into a frame of mind where he felt nothing for anyone. She saw the scars on his arms. There were white raised lines made by something she’d read about when she’d researched him. What did the term ‘violent torture’ mean? Amongst other things, it meant ‘the scalpel’. Its knife-like electrode that cut, burnt and cauterized. She knew he would have suffered more from wounds that couldn’t be seen on the surface. Ebony watched his movements and it struck her how gentle he was.

Carmichael sat back to give the fire a chance to take hold. He turned to look at her.

‘Tell me about the victims.’

‘The mother was mid-twenties, Caucasian, healthy, and had been pregnant before. The baby was about thirty-six weeks. The umbilical cord was cut. But it never took a breath.’

‘No “missing persons” answering?’

She shook her head. ‘Chief Superintendent Davidson is concentrating resources on finding that out.’ She watched him prickle at the mention of Davidson’s name.

Sparks sprayed out like fireworks and a burning scrap of wood landed on the rug in front of the hearth. He squashed it between finger and thumb.

‘How was she killed?’

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘I want to see the forensics report.’

Ebony didn’t answer. She knew he wouldn’t be allowed to.

‘The man who we believe carried out the murders went under the name of Chichester. Does that mean anything to you?’ Carmichael shook his head. ‘Can you tell me what you remember about that day at Rose Cottage?’

He shook his head again. ‘I try and remember as little as possible.’ He looked away for a few minutes. The silence resounded round the room. He looked back. He searched her face. ‘What does Davidson expect from me? He mishandled it from day one. He followed the wrong lines of enquiry. Whoever did it was long gone by the time he got his head out of his arse.’ Carmichael raised his voice but then it softened just as quickly. ‘Has he reopened my case?’

She shook her head. ‘Not yet, but we are pushing for it. There is a lot of respect and loyalty for you in the department. People will do everything they can to get a result this time.’

He prodded the logs with the poker. ‘I won’t help Davidson just so that he can get a lucrative fucking retirement deal after he leaves the Force. Come back to me when the case is reopened.’

Ebony sat on the sofa, hugging her legs in close to keep warm. Bridget came in and stood in the doorway:

‘I’ve finished feeding the animals. Does tha want me to stay?’

‘We’ll manage, thanks. How are you getting home?’

‘I’m staying with my dad tonight; haven’t been able to get to him for three weeks; I’ll drive tractor across the fields.’ Her eyes went back to Ebony. . ‘I’ll be back tomorrow, in the morning. . early. . ’

‘Okay.’

Carmichael thanked her and then turned his attention on the catching fire. Bridget took a last look at Ebony and was gone. A draft of arctic air came around the room as the door swung behind her. Ebony shivered. Carmichael stood and went to a box chest at the far side of the room, opened it and pulled out a shawl. ‘Here, put this round yourself.’