Dead of Winter Tr Read online

  ‘Sarge?’

  Carter turned round to see her holding the corpse of a baby in her hands.

  Chapter 3

  The lambs bleated in the cold. The wind and snow came driving off the Yorkshire Dales onto the small farm. It was a risky business lambing now. The Dorset Horn was a breed that could produce lambs all year long but they required more looking after if they were to thrive in this harsh environment.

  Callum Carmichael ran his hand over the belly of the sheep . . . she was overdue. She flinched at his touch. Jumper was an expert mother. She was one of a hundred ewes in the old barn.

  Jumper had been with Carmichael for six years now. He had hand-reared her. In the field, she came when he called her name. In the summer months the sheep were allowed outside but now, in lambing season, they had to come into the pens: six feet by four. Foxes had claimed lambs before, as had badgers and buzzards. Everything was hungry now in the worst winter for a long time.

  Carmichael looked into the stall next to Jumper where a newborn lamb was suckling on his mother, its tail wagging furiously. Carmichael looked back at Jumper and decided he was probably being overcautious and to let nature take its course, but to check on her again in half an hour. He called Rosie the sheepdog to follow him out of the barn. On his way down to the house he made a last check on his horse. Inside the stable, he slipped his hand between Tor’s back and his fleecy rug and was reassured that he was warm enough. He should be: it had taken Carmichael an hour that morning to bank the straw up high against the walls of the stable.

  Stepping back out into the yard, Carmichael locked up and turned his face from the blizzard as he whistled for Rosie. Taking a last look around, he unlatched the back door of the house that had been his home for the last thirteen years since his wife died.

  As he walked through the kitchen he pulled the pot of stew from the top of the Aga and left it to one side. He knew he should eat but he hadn’t the appetite. Instead, he walked through to the sitting room and took his Steyr Scout rifle from the gun cupboard, opened it and inserted a magazine. Then he locked it and left it leaning against the doorframe.

  Logs were burning in the Inglenook fireplace. It must have burned the same way for three hundred years.

  Carmichael went to the dresser, picked up the bottle of Scotch and carried it across to his desk and then he opened his laptop, waiting for it to fire up before he clicked on his music library. It had been a long time since he had listened to any music. Too many memories; too many feelings. Green Day blasted out. It made him smile. He could see his wife Louise’s face now as she’d pretended to hate it. She’d left him in the lounge with his music and his glass of red and she’d come back with Sophie; both of them wearing earmuffs. He smiled at the memory. He hadn’t allowed himself even the good memories for a long time . . . he didn’t know why they were coming back tonight. Something in the weather or the world was overpowering him. It was going to be a long night. He poured himself a few fingers of single malt. It melted in his throat and burned as it slid downwards. Standing on the broad hearth he nudged a half-burnt log with his foot, sending up a spray of sparks. His face was bright from the fire, his dark hair wet from the snow. He picked up the photo of Louise smiling at him, Sophie in her arms, and took it over to sit in front of the fire and sip his Scotch. The bridge of his nose burned as his eyes filled. He ran a finger across the photo and held it to his chest as he sat back and listened to the crackle of the fire, felt its warmth through to his bones. He heard his Jack Russell terrier Rusty sigh from his basket as it watched him. Carmichael didn’t even realize he was crying.

  ‘Enough,’ he said out loud, stood, drank the whisky down, and called for Rosie as he pulled on his overcoat.

  The bitter wind sliced his face as he opened the back door and walked back up to the barn. He switched on the light. The barn was musty with the smell of lambing. He couldn’t see Jumper. He walked through the barn slowly, as if walking in tar. In the orange hue the sheep’s eyes stared at him as he passed. The lambs stopped suckling to watch his slow progress. Carmichael kept walking; kept moving one heavy foot in front of the other. Walking in a dream, in a memory. His mind was spiralling back thirteen years, to the day he had walked towards the open door of a small holiday cottage where his wife and child were staying for the weekend. His breathing quickened until it wheezed in his chest as he stepped inside a world that should have been filled with the sound of laughter and chatter and heard only the droning of flies. He turned his head to look at the ewes but instead he saw his wife Louise looking at him, her face splattered with blood. She reached out a bloody hand to him. A cry caught in his throat; the ewes heard it; they turned their heads to listen. The noise jolted him back to the barn and Louise was gone. Jumper was on the floor of her pen. He could smell the stench of the lamb. Its body half out, stuck, breach position. It had died inside her womb and turned toxic and now she could not be rid of it. He ran back to the house and pulled out the box of medical supplies from the tack-room cupboard . . . he cursed as he searched for the antibiotics he needed and found just a small amount. She needed a big dose to save her. He had barely any. The vet hadn’t had any on him the last visit and then the snow had come. He picked up the supplies and carried them back to the barn then he knelt beside the ewe and injected what he had into the muscle in her leg before starting to cut out the lamb. For three hours Carmichael worked with the stench of the lamb in his nose . . . By the time he finished the task Jumper was dead.

  Chapter 4

  ‘You alright, Ebb?’

  She nodded but her eyes stayed focused on the house. They were sitting in his car at the edge of the driveway, still waiting for permission from the SOCOs to go inside. The first lot of furniture had been loaded into a van and was headed back to the lab. Ebony hadn’t said much since the discovery of the baby. Carter looked at her profile. ‘Not nice,’ he added. She shook her head but didn’t speak. ‘Those tyre prints, Ebb? Someone must have noticed a big vehicle sat on the driveway. Must have been at least the size of a pick-up truck. Surely the neighbours saw what cars were parked here. Did they know who lived here?’

  ‘They keep themselves to themselves, Sarge. I went round to speak to them after the gardener left. They never saw anyone move in or out. They had no idea who lived here.’

  ‘So much for people being friendlier in the country. If this was in the East End the neighbours would know everything.’

  Ebony watched curiously as Carter squished the old piece of nicotine gum back into the empty space in the packet and popped a fresh one in his mouth.

  ‘Does that stuff help?’

  ‘I hope so. Tried cold turkey but couldn’t hack it. Trying to give up . . . you know . . .’ He glanced across at her. ‘For the baby . . . My girlfriend’s pregnant.’

  ‘I heard. Congratulations. Is she feeling alright?’ Ebony had never met Cabrina. It felt strange asking after someone she hadn’t met but Jeanie the Family Liaison Officer had told her all about it and Ebony had listened politely. Jeanie sat opposite her in the office. Jeanie and Carter used to be an item.

  Carter sighed. ‘She’s okay . . . I suppose . . . She’s back living at home with her parents.’ Ebony glanced across to see if she had heard right. Carter leant back against the headrest and stared out of the windscreen at the sky. The night was losing its grip and making way for dawn. A tinge of purple was creeping into the sky. Carter had a boxer’s nose. It had been broken so many times that the cartilage had been removed to allow him to breathe. Now it was straighter but flatter than it was designed to be. He cared more about his hair than he ever let on; it was thick and black, a heritage from his Italian mother, cut in a Tintin quiff at the front. ‘I used to think she was bad enough once a month. Once a month I could cope with: knew what she needed . . . knew how to make her happy. Now I have no frigging idea what she wants. Whatever it is, it’s not me at the moment. It’s all talk of her and the baby managing.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Ebony didn’t know what to
say. ‘I’m sure she’ll come back soon. Pregnancy does funny things to women.’

  ‘Yeah, so I heard . . . back there?’ He gestured towards the house. ‘You know a lot about forensics?’

  ‘I did some at uni . . . it interests me, that’s all.’

  ‘You need to get out more, Ebb.’ He smiled. ‘You glad to be working in the Murder Squad?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s what I wanted. I requested it.’

  Carter shifted a little in his seat so that he could turn and face her.

  ‘Why? What was it about it that appealed?’ Ebony shrugged. She buried her chin further into her scarf. The car was beginning to feel too small. Carter knew she was getting uncomfortable. It only made him push her a little more. ‘You know, Ebb, we’re going to spend a lot of time sat in this car together. It’s going to get very boring if you don’t start opening up.’ She turned to see if he was teasing; he was only half smiling. He was watching her intently; seeing how far he could push her before he was in danger of making her mistrust him. ‘Good detectives need to allow themselves to feel things: emotions, raw stuff. I bet you most detectives in the squad would rather watch a good rom-com than a film where people blast the shit out of each other. They are sensitive souls – too much, sometimes.’

  ‘I know how things feel.’ She looked at Carter; something about his manner reassured her. She realized he reminded her of a boy she once knew; a boy who’d befriended her in one of the homes she’d stayed in.

  ‘I’m not having a go at you, Ebb, believe me. I’m just saying, you bring a lot to the table. You’re bright, eager. I can see you know your stuff. You can make it really work for you as a detective. You’ll get further than I will, that’s for sure. You okay?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Okay . . . What were your initial thoughts when you saw the baby?’

  She sat up: alert. He smiled to himself. If there was one way to get close to Ebony it was through dead bodies. ‘Just delivered. Cord still intact. Grave wax the same as on the mother’s body, buried the same time. Someone’s dirty secret maybe? Perhaps he got rid of his wife and baby to make room for someone else.’

  ‘He’s got money.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge, and he’s young enough to attract women.’

  ‘Fit enough to bury them under the patio.’

  ‘Over thirty-five, under fifty-five then, Sarge.’

  ‘But why did he choose to kill them here? In this way? If I had money I would go abroad on a holiday and have an accident happen to my wife.’

  Ebony looked towards the house as the front door opened to Blackdown Barn.

  ‘Someone’s on the move, Sarge.’

  They watched a tall frame emerge into the light at the front of the house and start to walk down the drive towards them and the empty car parked behind.

  ‘It’s Trevor Bishop from Forensics. That means SOCOs must have finished the initial search. We can go in, Ebb . . . rock and roll . . . let’s go.’ Carter got out of the car.

  Bishop was loading bags into his boot.

  ‘You off, Trev?’

  Bishop nodded: ‘Getting back to load these prints into the system.’ He lifted his case in. ‘I’ll see you at the meeting at eight. We’re going to be back-and-forth here: still need to pick up the rest of the furniture; it has to be done in stages.’ He handed them some more suits from the boot of his car. ‘Change your suits before you go inside.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Inside the entrance Sandford, the Crime Scene Manager, head of the SOCOs, was dismantling the door to a room on the left.

  ‘How’s it looking, Sandford?’ Carter asked. Sandford didn’t answer and stepped past him into the lounge. ‘This place even feels dead.’ Carter stepped in with him and stood in the middle of the room looking around. ‘Exposed brickwork and low beams. Nightmare to clean. Full of spiders.’

  Sandford didn’t stop what he was doing. He was thinking to himself . . . ‘Rustic charm lost on him . . .’ He picked up a power tool and applied his weight to the hinges of the door. Sandford wasn’t keen on Carter. There was something about him that irritated him. Maybe it was the rattle of his heavy gold signet bracelet or the immaculate hair. Maybe it was that Sandford was pretty sure Carter had never been to a rugby match in his life; preferred to watch the footie down the pub with his mates probably. Whatever it was . . . it riled him.

  Sandford kept working as he replied: ‘No one left here in a hurry. We’ll be lucky to get much.’ He glanced Ebony’s way as she stood in the entrance. She was new to him.

  ‘Just saw Bishop leave . . . seemed happy.’ Carter stepped back into the hall. ‘We allowed all over the house?’

  ‘Are those new suits?’ Sandford turned and looked them over. ‘Any cross-contamination from the garden and we’ll be crucified.’

  ‘Yep . . . suited and booted.’

  ‘Okay, carry on . . . but keep contact down to a minimum. Enter anything you find in the log . . .’

  Carter glanced Ebony’s way and flicked his eyes towards the stairs. ‘We’ll start at the top.’

  Ebony followed him up the broad sweeping staircase, a heavy white painted banister to one side and a large expanse of smooth plastered wall to the other. They came out on a broad landing. The layout mirrored the downstairs. On the left, above the lounge, was the master bedroom. To the right the corridor ran the length of the house and bedrooms came off it left and right. ‘I’ll start in here, Ebb.’ Carter turned left. ‘You go the other way. Tell me what you find: first impressions count, keep talking to me.’

  Ebony pushed open the first door. The room smelt musty; the walls looked clean. She worked her way down the corridor.

  ‘How many bedrooms you found?’ Carter called out to her after a few minutes.

  ‘Four up this end, Sarge, two en suite. All been slept in. They have a “lived-in” smell but someone’s gone to lengths to wash the walls.’

  ‘They got beds?’

  ‘Yes. The beds are still here. They look very clean. No mattress covers.’

  ‘This one hasn’t. Come and take a look.’ Ebony made her way back to where she’d left him. She crossed to stand next to him at the window overlooking the front of the house.

  ‘This is the biggest of the rooms, Sarge.’

  ‘Must be the master bedroom, Ebb. But why is there no bed in here and no curtains either?’ She followed his gaze down over the tops of the trees at the edge of the property: still dark silhouettes. The small digger had arrived and two officers were clearing a path to get it round to the back of the house. The dawn had just managed to take hold of the sky but it had a greenish hue; it was full of snow. In the distance was the glow of London.

  He looked down at the floor. ‘Why is there lino in this room? And if you were going to have lino in a bedroom why would you choose blue? It’s like a dentist’s.’

  ‘It isn’t typical bathroom lino, it’s thicker, more expensive.’ Ebony paused. It was one of those times that she realised she knew something without knowing why. Because it meant something. It had meant something to her when the social worker gave her mother some money to furnish their council flat. That day they had walked around every cheap flooring place they could find and all she remembered was her mother’s growing disappointment. ‘We can’t afford that Ebony – not that lino anyway: it’s too expensive.’ She remembered the feeling of building anxiety: always watching her mother; always trying to keep her happy. Keep her under control.

  ‘There’s been a bed on here . . . you can see its imprint. A single bed – funny imprint it’s made. It’s been dragged maybe.’ He stood back to gauge the size. ‘Why in the biggest room do you put a single bed? Could be a kid’s room, Ebb?’ He looked around him. ‘But it would have to be a very tidy kid not to scuff the skirting, let alone put their hand marks on the wall.’

  ‘The walls have been washed, Sarge. You can still see the cloth marks. And this room doesn’t smell like the others. It doesn’t smell slept in.’

  ‘The sm
ell of people gets in the carpets, in the walls. I know what you mean, Ebb. This room smells like new plastic.’

  Ebony went into the en suite bathroom.

  ‘What’s it like in there?’ Carter called out. He knelt on the floor to measure the indentations where the bed had been.

  ‘It doesn’t feel like a woman’s bathroom, Sarge,’ she answered, standing in the white-tiled room. ‘It’s not pretty, just white: ultra clean.’ Ebony’s voice echoed. ‘And it doesn’t smell so much of perfume, more of mothballs, old-fashioned. The same smell as the bedroom.’ She stood looking around at the glass shelves on the walls. ‘Someone had a lot of things they needed to keep in here, off the floor – keep clean.’

  Carter came to stand in the doorway. ‘Yeah . . . too clean . . . too sterile. What was that bloke’s name? The one who didn’t like germs?’

  ‘Howard Hughes?’

  ‘That’s it . . . maybe someone’s a Howard Hughes type. Everything has to be bleached and kept up away from contamination. I’m going to end up like him if I don’t watch it . . . already see the signs of it. Cabrina says it’s like living in a show home.’ He winked at Ebony. He could see by her face she didn’t know how to take him. He wondered if she ever opened up to anyone. ‘Let’s go and see if the SOCOs have finished downstairs.’

  At the bottom of the stairs Sandford was packing his drill away. He glanced at them as they came level.

  ‘I’ll finish up here and get my initial report to you in a few hours,’ he said to Carter with a nod towards Ebony. ‘Don’t want to be long from here. There’s a lot of work still to be done.’

  ‘Good man,’ Carter answered.

  Ebony noticed that Carter talked differently to people with posh accents. She wasn’t quite sure whether he was taking the piss or just feeling awkward. ‘We won’t be long either. We’ll finish looking around here and then we need to get back for the autopsies. Forensics might have got something by then.’