Lee Weeks - Dead of Winter

Totteridge Village, London Outskirts, 7 December

Peter felt his back wheel slide on the ice and compacted snow as he turned off the gritted main road and onto the lane. The weather was getting worse.

Shit. . he swore to himself. . This is definitely the last call of the day. It was nearly dark at just three o’clock in the afternoon. He was looking forward to getting back to his woodburner and his supper.

As he crawled up the narrow lane the headlights on the old Jeep bounced back from the fast-falling snow and black hedges loomed up on either side of him. He rose another half a mile, out of the freezing fog, and saw the house on the right-hand side. Blackdown Barn was etched on a plaque fixed to a stone pillar on the right. He pulled over and leant forward on the steering wheel to get a better view. It was the first time he’d seen the house properly — usually the trees obscured it from sight. It was the first time he’d been this way since the leaves fell and the snow came.

No cars on the driveway, no lights. .

He thought about driving off. He was cold and hungry. He’d been dropping leaflets all day. But he hadn’t worked for three weeks and today the weather looked like it was improving. He had to get some money in for Christmas; his kids had lists a mile long. He spotted a mailbox on the opposite pillar to the plaque. Leaving the engine running and headlights on, he got out of the car and opened the box but shut it fast as soon as junk mail started spewing out. He looked up towards the house and sighed to himself — he’d come this far, he may as well drop a leaflet through the door.

Reaching into the car, he switched off the ignition and took out the keys then gave the door an extra shove with his hip to make sure it stayed shut. He’d have to change the car early in the New Year. The old Jeep was due for its MOT in February; it would definitely fail it this time round.

He paused before opening the gate, rattled the latch, and counted to ten. In his wild teenage years he’d stolen a car. Just as he was pulling away and wondering who would be silly enough to leave the keys in the ignition, he’d heard a low growl from the back seat and what he’d presumed to be a dark rug covering a large bag on the back seat turned out to be a sleeping Rottweiler that was waking up fast. Peter sustained bite wounds to his head and arms before crashing the car into a bus. Now he had a real fear of anything with fur, four legs and teeth. Ten came and went — no dog. Walking up the driveway he made a mental list of jobs to recommend to the owner. . they’ll need the tops lopping off those trees. . and that hedge needs cutting back. . The security lights didn’t come on. . maintenance as well. . ideal. At the front door he knocked and waited and then slipped a leaflet underneath as he turned to leave. Halfway back to the gate a scream pierced the freezing air. His boots dug into the gravel and he turned to listen.

‘Hello. .?’

His breath came out in a frozen cloud. It hung in silence.

Walking past the front door he followed the path around to the side of the house and unlocked the side gate. He inched forward, keeping close to the wall. Beneath his boots the soft path turned to hard concrete slab. His fingertips touched smooth glass and then nothing as the space opened up before him. He stopped. Something was moving in front of him in the darkness. Something had stopped to listen to him; was breathing when he did and was waiting for him.

‘Anyone there?’

He waited, listening, his heart thumping in his ears. A twig snapped to his right. He swung round. Two eyes glared up at him from the ground. Peter screamed, stumbled backwards and landed bang on hard stone. A flash of fur and the eyes were gone.

He sat there for a moment shaking his head. Cheeky bloody fox. . He smiled, embarrassed and relieved. Why hadn’t it run away earlier? It should have been off at the first sign of intruders. He lifted himself onto his knees and placed his hand down for support. It covered another’s. A bony hand reached for him from the ground.

DC Ebony Willis knelt beneath the security lights that now shone down from the gables of Blackdown Barn. It was ten-thirty p.m. The snow had stopped falling; the night had brought a biting wind. She stopped what she was doing to listen to the sound of a car approaching; someone was over-revving, sliding on the ice as they crawled up the lane. She heard the engine cut and the slam of a door. Next she heard her new boss’s voice as Detective Sergeant Dan Carter stopped to talk to the officer guarding the gate.

‘Sorry, Ebb. . it took me for frigging ever. . I’m not usually late, honest.’ He began walking up the driveway towards her. He was rustling a packet of nicotine chewing gum in his fingers, trying to force a piece out. ‘There was a pile-up on the way. Cars were sliding all over the frigging place. I thought the big freeze had finished?’

Ebony stood and tucked her phone back into her jacket pocket. The jacket was zipped up to the neck: fitted, padded, small neat collar. She wore thick tights beneath her work trousers, thermals under that. Her breath was white from the cold.

Dan put the gum in his mouth, pulled up the collar of his coat and stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘It’s arctic out here. What we got, Ebb?’

‘A gardener found a body at the back of the house, Sarge. They’ve been digging for a while now. Doctor Harding’s here.’ She stood and turned her face from the wind.

‘Did you get the gardener’s statement?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’ She dug in her pocket and opened her notebook. ‘Peter Gallway, lives in the area. He came here looking for work. He went round the back when he thought he heard a scream, he thought someone might be in trouble. Turned out be a fox.’

‘Do you think he was casing the place?’

Ebony shook her head. ‘He has form; but it’s not for burglary; he told me about it as soon as I asked. He was done for joy-riding when he was a teenager. I checked it. Looks like it was a one-off. I think he’s straight.’

‘You alright? You look freezing.’

Carter hadn’t quite worked out the new addition to the Murder Squad. She had one of those faces that was hard to read: angry, sad or just concentrating?

‘I’m fine, Sarge.’ Ebony wiped her nose surreptitiously with the edge of her forefinger. It felt wet. She dived into her pocket for a tissue.

On the rare occasion Ebony wore make-up it was to tone down her features, not exaggerate them. She had an over-large mouth, eyes too big set in a narrow face. Altogether it made for an interesting rather than pretty face.

He looked towards where she’d been scraping the gravel when he arrived. ‘Find something?’

‘I was looking at this.’ She knelt back down and shone her torch into the scooped-out hollows where tyres had been resting. ‘Must have been a big vehicle. . heavy.’

Carter squatted down beside her and looked along the driveway to a second set of indentations, now softly coated by a layer of white. ‘Yeah, about twelve feet long: big van, small lorry — too big for a domestic vehicle.’

Ebony scraped away the fine layer of snow. ‘There are leaves in the bottom here. The last leaves fell about two weeks ago.’

Carter straightened up. ‘Good work, Ebb.’ He tried to push his hands further in his pockets; they didn’t quite fit. ‘We’ll get a mould taken of those tyres.’ Carter swivelled; compressed snow squeaked beneath the sole of his expensive boots. ‘Nice place this.’ He nodded appreciatively. ‘Kind of place I was thinking of retiring to. .’ He looked back to wink at her. ‘Course, have to get better on the take. .’