Dead of Winter Tr (10 page)

He unclipped his hunting knife and placed it on the shelf. Walking up the few steps and into the kitchen he indicated that she should follow.

‘You hungry?’ He went across to the Aga and pulled the pot of stew from the hotplate. ‘Sit down. Make yourself useful . . .’ He set the loaf of bread and a knife in front
of her on the scrubbed table top.

Ebony sat down and took the opportunity to look around the kitchen while Carmichael was busy. It looked like no one had decorated for a hundred years. It was clean and functional. It
hadn’t made it to the rustic chic pages of a magazine: no hanging copper pans or bunches of dried herbs. No unread recipe books. Carmichael walked past her carrying the logs he’d been
chopping. She heard him stacking them beyond the kitchen. When he returned he took two bowls from an oak dresser and spooned in some stew. He opened two bottles of beer and placed one in front of
her. Then he sat down opposite.

He didn’t hide his scrutiny. Ebony wished she had a napkin, kitchen roll, anything; she’d splashed her chin and had wiped it lots of times but her hand still felt wet.

‘You’re very young.’ He paused while breaking his bread open. ‘How long have you been a detective?’

‘Four years. I’ve been in the Force six altogether.’ She looked at Carmichael’s face just a few feet away across the table from her. She was re-reading his file in her
head: the keenest marksman in the Metropolitan Police Force. His photo taken with the rest of the firearms team. His smile proud, his gaze steadfast. Thirteen years looked like twenty. He was
weatherworn, bearded, sunburnt from the wind and the rain. Special Forces before the police: SBS. He had once taken out four members of the top Iraqi military. He had sat in one spot for a week and
waited to kill one man.

‘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.’

‘Thanks.’ She took it and wrapped it around her shoulders. ‘It’s beautiful.’ It was hand crocheted. The intricate weave looked like thick lace.

‘It’s a nursing shawl. It was my wife’s.’

Carmichael picked up the whisky bottle from the dresser. He poured out two shots and handed one to Ebony. He drank his whisky as he leant against the oak beam above the fireplace.

A few minutes passed as Ebony stared at the fire and Carmichael stared into his glass.

‘Can I ask you some things about your past?’

‘You can ask.’

‘You were tortured in the Iraq war?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you allowed to talk about it?’

‘Allowed, yes, some of it anyway. But I don’t choose to.’

‘Can I ask you about what you did after you left the Special Boat Service? Where did you go?’

Carmichael moved the logs around on the fire. He pushed the small sticks into the flames. His fingers were hardened to the pain.

‘I went travelling.’

‘Where did you go? I’ve never been abroad.’

‘Never?’ She shook her head. ‘Then I envy you. You have a world waiting for you out there.’

She smiled. ‘Maybe one day.’

‘I didn’t go anywhere specific. I searched for answers. I never found them.’ She looked at him with an expression that told him that wasn’t going to be enough of an
answer. ‘South America, Africa, Europe. I told you I was searching.’

‘Searching for answers to do with Louise and Sophie?’

‘Yes. Mostly.’

‘Did you find anything?’ He shook his head.

She wrapped the shawl around herself and sipped the whisky. It wasn’t a drink she liked and she wasn’t much of a drinker, but the Scotch warmed her. She looked at him.

‘You resigned. Why didn’t you fight it? You have a lot of support from serving officers in the MET.’

He threw another log on the fire. Rusty jumped up onto the sofa next to Ebony. She was grateful for the heat of his small body as he lay across her lap. Carmichael shook his head, stared into
the fire.

‘My mind went into meltdown.’ The fire crackled. ‘I trusted those in charge to think for me . . . big mistake.’

‘Did you ever come up with a motive for the murders?’

He shook his head. ‘I delved into Louise’s life before she met me . . . nothing. Nothing she hadn’t told me.’

‘What about Chrissie?’

‘She studied medicine at Edinburgh. She went off travelling for a year. She got pregnant – by accident or by design, I don’t know.’

‘Did you meet her father?’

‘Yes . . . at the funeral. James Martingale is an arrogant fuck but you can’t argue with the amount of money he puts back into charities. Chrissie had an older half sister; I never
met her.’

‘Were they here in the UK when the murders happened?’

‘No. Did you see his statement?’

‘Yes. I read it last night. I just wanted to hear things from you.’

He looked at her and almost smiled; deep creases were indented either side of his face. Ebony saw a glimpse of the handsome man of thirteen years earlier. ‘So . . . at least I’m not
the chief suspect in your mind, otherwise you wouldn’t have come here alone. Thanks. It’s a solid gesture . . . it’s been noted.’

Ebony stroked Rusty’s velvety ears. He sighed. The room felt warmer.

‘Why didn’t you go there, that night, to pick them up like you were supposed to?’

‘I got drunk. Blind, steaming drunk.’ He spoke softly as he stared into the fire.

‘On your own?’

‘Yes. No one walks away from war and isn’t affected by it. You wouldn’t be human. You eat, sleep and pray to stay alive and see your family again but, when you do, you
don’t know which is the reality any more. You live in constant alert mode and fear and nothing is real any more. Louise understood me when no one else did . . . and Sophie gave me a purpose
to my life . . . but . . . sometimes I needed to be alone. Sometimes my memories are too much for me. I thought they needed a break from me too . . . I know how difficult it was
sometimes.’

‘Was your marriage okay?’

He looked at her, surprised. ‘You mean about my affair?

She nodded. ‘Just seems an odd thing seeing that you were a family man.’

‘What you mean is: was it so out of character that it means if I could do that, I could do anything?’

‘No, not really. I just would like to understand what made you do it.’

He prodded the fire with a poker as he talked: ‘I’d like to say I really understood it, but I don’t. I had a brief affair with a woman I worked with. I let my guard down. I
knew we were attracted to one another, had been for a long time and I kept well away from her until I had no choice but to see her every day, all day, all night. We ended up working together,
staying late, we ended up in bed. She wanted it to happen, badly, and I was going through a phase of feeling unworthy, self-destructive. You destroy what you treasure most because you don’t
think it can be real, it can’t last. I was guilty of believing I didn’t deserve Louise or Sophie. I regretted it as soon as I did it. It was one night, that was all. I told Louise. I
couldn’t have kept it from her. Maybe I should have.’