Jeff stood to contemplate the white wonderland before him, soft undulating layers of snow calling him to take their virginity. First things first. He scuffed over to the snowman to pick up the carrot only to discover that it wasn’t there. It wasn’t screwed into the face and it wasn’t on the ground below. He puzzled over this. Maybe a bird had taken it. Or an animal. But then, with a start, he saw the footprints that had walked up to the snowman then turned away, returning to the back gate from where they’d come.
‘Mmmmm.’ Jeff hovered a boot over the prints thinking they must be his. No, too small – he had big feet for his age. He put his weight down in the snow to confirm that his feet were two or three sizes bigger than the print and he knew his dad’s feet were bigger still.
‘Illogical, Captain,’ he reasoned, using a line from his all-time favourite TV programme. (Don-kee’s favourite was
Magpie
. What a loser.) Jeff followed the trail of footprints from the gate as they headed off into the woods and, beyond, the golf course.
After a few yards he stopped to raise his head, allowing his sharp eyes to plot the course taken by the carrot thief out across the field of white to the horizon. The wind dropped for a moment and with it the swirls of snow that limited his vision. There, in the distance, a diminutive figure was standing on the edge of a small copse that bordered the golf course. Although some way away, the figure seemed to bridge the expanse of ground between them, reaching out to squeeze the heart with an invisible hand and Jeff found his pulse racing, his breath arriving in spurts.
‘No,’ Jeff panted. ‘Can’t be.’ He rubbed his eyes in time-honoured fashion and looked again but there was no mistake. The outline of a small boy stood statue-still against the elements and, worse, appeared to be staring straight back at him. The bright red and black hooped jumper seemed to dwarf the lightly framed form as though it was a mid-length skirt and not a woollen jumper.
‘Dennis the Menace,’ gasped Jeff, turning in confusion to the house where he knew the garment was hidden, squirrelled away in the shoe cupboard when it wasn’t covering his mum’s tear-streaked face.
‘Don-kee,’ he muttered under his breath, returning his stare to the distant form. He tried to see the face of the boy but snow stung his eyeballs so he shielded his eyes with a gloved hand. The figure hadn’t moved, standing motionless, one arm hanging by his side, one arm bent, hand in mitten, clutching a balloon that danced in the swirling wind.
‘Don-kee!’ he repeated, this time shouting across the fields at the apparition. No reaction. Jeff moved slowly, reluctantly, towards the image of his dead brother then hesitated before tracking back towards the snowman, dragging his feet through the alien footprints until all traces were gone – all the way back through the gate, all the way back to the snowman. No one else could know.
Spinning back, Jeff’s mood turned to anger and his fist clenched. He thought of all his presents. He thought of having to share. He thought of the lopsided grin. A second later he began to jog towards the trees, stomping heavily across the scarred white ground. ‘Don’t you tell, Don-kee,’ he shouted when only a hundred yards away. ‘Don’t you tell.’
At that moment, a gust of snow blew across Jeff’s face and he missed his footing, slipping clumsily on a tuft of grass. When he surfaced, the figure had gone. Jeff stood, brushing himself down, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks, like when you could see water on a hot road in the distance. But then he saw the balloon jogging up and down in the breeze, before its owner disappeared out of sight over the hill towards the ninth fairway.
‘Wait!’ screamed Jeff, quickening his pace. ‘I’m coming!’ He set off again, following the clear trail over the frozen ground, shouting to the darkening sky as he clambered after the sure-footed figure. ‘Don’t you tell, Don-kee. I’m coming.’
DI Walter Laird crunched across the slippery white ground towards the hive of activity a hundred yards up the slope. Looking around at the snow-filled hollows and sparse brown trees lining his path, Laird realised he was on an actual fairway of the Allestree Park Golf Course. And though he was no sportsman, he also surmised that the crime scene officers, working furiously on a raised plateau ringed by more trees, must be working on a putting green. Green in summer perhaps but, everywhere he gazed, the colours of deepest winter assaulted the eye; blinding white snow dominated, leavened only by the soothing washed-out brown and pale green of dormant shrubs and trees, dotted around the landscape to trap the unskilled and delineate the path of play.
As Laird approached the throng of technicians that attended the aftermath of every violent death, a single bright colour stood out from the drabness. A shiny red and black balloon had snared in the branches of a bare tree, a few yards above the hastily erected crime scene tent. Its presence jarred and the detective was lost in private contemplation until a fresh-faced young man emerged from the tent.
Detective Constable Clive Copeland’s face was as white as the ground around him, the victim’s fate seared on his eyeballs. Staring blankly at Laird and unable to speak, he acknowledged his DI with a tiny drop of the head.
‘Clive,’ said Laird, fighting off the unworthy smile curling at the edge of his mouth. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ he added, for once omitting the usual quip about Copeland’s inexperience.
The younger man’s saucer-eyed stare was broken, his head snapping towards Laird. He took a second to assess his superior’s words. ‘I hope not, guv,’ he replied.
‘Hold that thought,’ said Laird. ‘What have we got?’
‘A kid called Jeff Ward, guv. We’ve not done a formal ID yet but it’s him, all right. Went missing yesterday lunchtime. He’s been strangled.’ He paused, biting at a lip as though about to convey crucial information. ‘Twelve years old.’
Laird shook his head. ‘Bastard. Any. . . ?’
‘Nothing sexual that we can see. Clothes seem intact.’
‘Thank God.’
‘I don’t think God’s involved here, guv. WPC Langley took the details from the parents. Seems the family was already in mourning. They buried their other kid a couple of months ago – younger son. He drowned.’
‘Ward,’ murmured Laird, looking to the heavy sky to think. ‘Not little Donny Ward that was in the papers?’ Copeland’s faint nod confirmed it. ‘Jesus Christ. Two kids lost in the space of two months. . .’
‘I know.’
‘Merry bloody Christmas,’ growled Laird.
‘And I thought my family had it rough with Tilly,’ muttered Copeland.
‘Steady, lad,’ said Laird, glancing sharply at the young man. ‘We’ve a job to do.’
Copeland smiled weakly. ‘Guv.’
‘Walk me through it?’ continued Laird, remembering
his
first dead child.
Concentrate on the facts. Keep the mind busy
.
‘Right,’ agreed Copeland, seeking sanctuary in the specifics. He swept an arm up to his left, indicating the horizon where a suited SOCO was kneeling on the ground, measuring barely visible marks in the fresh snow. ‘The Wards live a mile or so over there on West Bank Road. You can just about make out some of the dead kid’s footprints heading away from home down to here.’
‘And then the bastard sneaks up and grabs him,’ concluded Laird.
‘I don’t think so, guv.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s weird. There seem to be two sets of footprints leading from the house but they’re hard to make out, like they’ve been trampled over. . .’
‘Trampled over?’
‘It’s hard to tell under the fresh snow but it’s like somebody has made an effort to obliterate any clear prints by dragging his feet through the marks.’
‘A chase?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Could be the doer leaving the scene, covering his tracks?’
‘Maybe. But we have a faint set of single prints leading in the opposite direction that we think are more likely the killer’s. SOCO reckon it was the Ward kid following his killer, obliterating all his footprints as he went.’
‘So he must have known him.’
‘Looks that way,’ agreed Copeland.
‘The dad did it,’ said Laird. ‘Fiver on it.’
‘Can’t take your money, guv,’ said Copeland regretfully. ‘The father was still at work when Jeff walked off. He’s alibied.’
‘You’ve checked that?’
Copeland’s expression was reproachful. ‘I’m not that wet behind the ears.’
Laird grinned. ‘Yes, you are.’ His levity faded. ‘All right, it’s not the dad. But some pervert got hold of the lad and strangled the life out of him. Witnesses?’
‘Uniform are going house to house. Nothing yet. One thing.’ Copeland gestured Laird to follow and set off to one of the clearer lone footprints disappearing into the distance. ‘The marks are from a small shoe. Size five.’
‘Are you thinking this was another kid’s handiwork?’ said Laird.
‘I wouldn’t rule it out,’ said Copeland. ‘It’s becoming more common.’
‘OK, so check the Ward boy’s school friends. See how many live local and bring them in. What about other witnesses? Dog walkers, tobogganists, arctic explorers?’
‘No one even heard him scream, guv.’
‘Can you scream with someone’s hands round your throat?’ asked Laird.
‘I suppose not,’ replied Copeland. ‘And the bruising on his neck shows the killer used a rope.’
‘Show me.’
They walked back towards the crime scene tent and gazed past the two SOCOs busy in their work. On a flash of the camera, Laird saw the line of the rope on the skin.
‘Not good,’ said Laird, stepping past the younger man to spend a quiet couple of minutes looking at Jeff Ward’s lifeless body, flopped like a rag doll on the snow. ‘A rope smacks of planning. Let’s hope we can wrap this up sharpish.’
‘Weird thing,’ said Copeland over his shoulder, looking at the lifeless boy. ‘There’s no sign of a struggle.’
‘We all react differently, Clive.’
‘But if it were me I’d be trying to break away, do something.’
‘You can’t predict what people will do,’ explained Laird. ‘Some are paralysed with fear when they know they’re about to die.’
‘But no fight
or
flight,’ said Copeland.
‘Which makes it more likely it was someone the Ward kid knows,’ said Laird.
The pair stepped out of the tent, back out into the wintry chill. Only mid-morning and already it felt like dusk. Once clear of the hive of activity, Laird fumbled in vain for his cigarettes but Copeland failed to pick up on the hint.
Laird gave up the search for cigarettes, his expression grim. ‘I hate domestics. OK. Work up the father’s alibi until it’s cast in bronze then widen it out to other relations and ask about friends and neighbours. Maybe we’ve got a closet paedo in the area.’
‘But Ward wasn’t raped.’
‘If it’s a first-timer, the perv might have got off on it before he was ready. Doesn’t mean he didn’t
want
to violate him. If there’s a next time, the victim may not be so lucky.’
‘Lucky?’ exclaimed Copeland, turning to leave.
‘You know what I mean,’ said Laird. ‘Clive!’ Copeland glanced back. ‘Gently does it. We don’t want any more weeping and wailing than necessary. And make sure we’ve got plenty of girls to do the hand-holding.’
Copeland was about to depart when his eye caught a figure marching over the horizon. He took a sharp intake of breath and nodded at the distant form. ‘I hate to tell you this. . .’
Laird turned to look. ‘What in God’s name is Bannon doing here?’
The two officers watched the heavily layered man with a wild grey beard and wilder silvered hair striding towards the crime scene. He walked with difficulty and Laird surmised that the underfoot conditions were not the only factor.
‘Jesus,’ said Copeland. ‘He’s gone downhill fast. He’s not long retired, is he?’
‘Keep your voice down, Clive,’ mumbled Laird. ‘That’s a friend of mine and he used to be the finest detective on the force.’ He shouted in greeting at the approaching Bannon, his smile aping normality. ‘Sam! What are you doing here?’
Bannon panted to a halt, his thin pockmarked face red from the exercise. Laird could see he’d lost a lot of weight since he’d last seen him and, even at this early hour, his breath smelled of whisky.
‘Walter,’ said Bannon in return. He glanced at Copeland and narrowed his eyes. ‘I know you.’ Copeland squirmed under the older man’s cobalt-blue stare.
‘DC Copeland,’ interjected Laird.
Bannon’s eyes narrowed, as though sifting evidence in his pomp. ‘Clive Copeland – Matilda’s brother. I’m sorry for your trouble.’
Copeland blanched, the wound still raw.
‘Sam,’ said Laird quickly, stepping in front of Copeland. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’
Bannon fumbled in his heavy coat for cigarettes, pulling out a squashed pack of Capstan Full Strength and offered them round, his sudden grin exposing black and yellowed teeth. Both officers refused a free smoke though Laird plucked the cigarette from Bannon’s mouth and put it in his pocket for later.
‘This is a crime scene, boss,’ said Laird softly.
Bannon nodded in remembrance of procedure. ‘Crime scene. Right.’
Laird sounded out the words as though addressing a child. ‘Boss. Sam. You have to leave. You can’t be here.’
‘Come off it, Walter,’ said Bannon with a wink. ‘You can’t hide it from me. It’s another one, isn’t it?’
‘Another one?’ asked Laird and Copeland in unison.
Bannon touched his nose with a finger. ‘You can’t fool me, Wally.’ He nodded towards the canvas. ‘I heard it on the radio. It’s the missing Ward kid, right?’ Their silence confirmed it. ‘Thought so. How long has he been dead?’
‘Sir,’ began Copeland. ‘I don’t think—’
‘How long?’ shouted ex-DCI Bannon in sudden and violent frustration. The noise was deadened by the canopy of snow but still activity stopped, all heads turning to the drama.
Laird sighed then nodded at DC Copeland.
‘About twenty hours at a rough guess,’ said Copeland reluctantly.
Bannon found his smile again. ‘Killed yesterday then.’ He beamed at Laird. ‘December the twenty-second.’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ exclaimed Laird. ‘Not this again.’
‘But was I right?’ beamed Bannon.
‘I don’t want to hear it, Sam,’ said Laird.