Dead of Winter Tr (6 page)

‘It’s not there yet. Davidson won’t reopen the case until he has a reason to. He says if we solve Blackdown Barn, we’ll go a long way to solving the Carmichael
case.’

Carter went to find Ebony.

‘We need to talk. Let’s grab a coffee.’

The canteen was busy. Ebony’s housemate, Tina, worked behind the counter. She was on the cooked food section today. Her eyes lit up when she saw Carter, and Ebony groaned inwardly when she
spotted Tina had fresh lippy on.
Christ,
she thought
, she’s been waiting for him . . .

Carter winked at Tina and she giggled.

Ebony put her tray forward. ‘All-day breakfast please, Teen.’ Tina loaded up Ebony’s plate. She hovered with a spoon dripping beans over Ebony’s tray.

‘More beans, Ebb?’ she said in a sickly sweet voice, her eyes on Carter.

‘No, thanks . . . me and the tray have got enough.’

Carter counted out his change for his coffee and cake and Tina placed it neatly on his tray.

They went to sit on the far side of the canteen. Carter shook his head in disbelief as he watched Ebony tuck into the plate of food.

‘Christ, where do you put it all? You must have hollow legs.’

Ebony reached over for more ketchup while Carter took out the Carmichael file he’d got from Robbo.

‘We have a lead on this case but it’s not the easiest. Have you heard of Callum Carmichael?’

She froze, mid-mouthful. ‘The policeman whose wife and child were murdered in a holiday cottage?’

‘That’s the one. Trevor Bishop found a print in the master bedroom at Blackdown Barn that matches one at Rose Cottage where the Carmichael murders happened.’

‘I only vaguely remember the case; I was a teenager at the time. I was surprised to see it still on the board when I started here.’

‘It will stay on the board until it’s solved.’

‘I looked it up after I saw it there. The press coverage was mixed. There was talk of there being a cover-up. There was very little to go on.’

‘The handprint was it. That was the sum total of evidence. I’ve been talking to Robbo. He was serving at the time. He says it was a mess-up. Just now, in his office, Davidson glossed
over certain facts but it’s well known that there was cross-contamination of forensic samples: some DNA samples were lost, others corrupted. They didn’t have the dedicated equipment we
have now. Things weren’t as slick.’

‘What’s going to happen now, Sarge?’

‘For whatever reason, Davidson’s not prepared to reopen the case at the moment. He wants us to do some groundwork first. He’s asked me to find out everything I can about
Carmichael. He wants an update on Carmichael’s life. He wants to know what he’s been doing for thirteen years and he wants to know if there’s any dirt that people didn’t
feel they should dish up at the time but will now.’ Ebony stopped eating, her eyes widened. ‘Yeah . . . I know,’ said Carter. He pushed the file across to her. She began looking
at the handwritten notes of the first officer to respond to Carmichael’s call:

Ebony looked at the photos: Chrissie Newton’s naked body was on the floor in the lounge. She was lying on her back, her arms loose at her sides. Her head turned to one side. The whole of
her torso was opened up like a butchered pig.

Carter reached over and closed the file as someone walked past their table.

‘Read it later. Davidson wants us to go to Yorkshire and talk to Carmichael. We’ll catch a train up there tomorrow and get a car left for us at the station. He lives in the middle of
the Yorkshire Dales; it will take us too long to drive the whole way. In the meantime talk to everyone you can about him.’

‘Did Davidson say how he thinks Carmichael could have carried it out, Sarge?’

‘It was a toss-up between money he stood to gain and PTSD. Carmichael had served in the SBS. He had seen action in Iraq. He had been part of Special Forces. Davidson says he was diagnosed
with mood swings. He said he could have gone into military mode and gone berserk.’

‘PTSD isn’t a bad mood.’

‘Exactly – it’s a mental disorder where people can kill and not remember. Or they choose to see it another way. This is all according to Davidson and Harding, who was the
pathologist at that time. Basically, this is the last thing Davidson wants six months away from retirement. He wants us to go and see Carmichael, talk to him, tell him just enough to see if he has
anything useful for us and ask him if he wants to add anything to his original statement; he must have thought things over in all these years. But the main thing is, Davidson wants him contained.
If he plays nice we’ll keep him informed; throw him the odd stick to retrieve and pat his head when he does. Go with Harding this morning to Rose Cottage where the Carmichael murders
happened. Ask her to fill you in on the background. She did the autopsies that day. According to Robbo she was over-friendly with Davidson at one time.’ Carter smiled. ‘It’s going
to kill Davidson if he has to reopen the case. Bet he never thought he’d see this resurface. But you know what they say, Ebb. Shit sticks and bodies float.’

Davidson went to the bathroom next to his office and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Today he had on a deep blue shirt and a darker blue jacket. Grey trousers with a
permanent crease. His wife Barbara bought his clothes, but he never thanked her for doing it. Their marriage had lost any ember of excitement. He had long since stopped trying to make her feel
treasured or even wanted. Divorce was out of the question. He’d be damned if he’d hand over half of everything. Not at this stage in his life. Barbara could carry on enjoying her
benefits as she’d always done. She’d always been happy to take a back seat. He’d worked hard to court business acquaintances outside the Force. Davidson promised himself a life
again when he retired. He had a few interesting offers: big corporations that wanted him on their board. He would be travelling a lot, he would be flying first class, staying in top hotels, Barbara
wouldn’t want to come. If things had worked out well in the Carmichael case then Davidson wouldn’t have had to work at all after the Police Force. He’d be Commissioner by now and
retire on a massive pension. As it was, if things went badly again he would be lucky to get a job delivering groceries after he retired. The thought made him sweat. He splashed cold water onto his
face then stood looking at himself in the mirror. Small beads of water still dripped from his sallow skin. Okay . . . he’d made mistakes. Just six months until he could retire, for
Christ’s sake. But why now did he have to find himself back in the nightmare with Callum Carmichael?

Harding came into the bathroom. She came to stand next to him. The fact they had once slept together gave them a familiarity with each other.

‘Barbara still buying your shirts?’

He turned away, pulled down a paper towel and wiped his face, small precise dabs then went back into his office; she followed. He felt a flash of anger. Once more she had overstepped the mark.
Once more he felt the urge to see her naked.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to Rose Cottage this morning?’ He sat down behind his desk.

‘Yes. The owners are sending over a key. Apparently the place has hardly been touched in all these years.’

He stared at her. She knew he wasn’t really listening to her. He was white with rage. She didn’t flinch.

‘You can’t ignore it, John. You can’t stick your head in the sand . . .’

‘Thank you for your support in the meeting this morning.’ He was petulant.

They listened to the sound of doors banging: people in the corridor outside his office. The Murder Squad in full work frenzy. It was what they lived for. It was what they did. But Davidson had
had enough. He was six months from retiring and every part of his body and soul wanted out now, wanted a new life; he deserved it.

‘It’s no shame to admit the procedures let us down at the time. Everything’s in the open these days,’ Harding said as she sat down across from him. Davidson pursed his
lips, leant forward, elbows, forearms on the desk, and pressed his fingertips together. He didn’t answer. He looked at her coldly. She glared back. ‘We did our best with what we had at
the time.’ Davidson sighed, annoyed, exasperated; Harding stayed cool: ‘Reopen the Carmichael case, John.’

He flashed her a defiant look. ‘No.’

She persevered. ‘These are different times; transparency is the new gospel of the day.’

‘No . . . not transparency, people just want to know every sordid fact, even if they don’t understand it. They won’t care about technical reasons why we didn’t get a
conviction in this case. Why should they? The buck will stop with me . . . I have everything to lose now. I made the mistake last time of thinking I would come out of it with a bright future ahead.
I thought I would take on the case and reap the glory – after all, Carmichael was a war hero and a well respected officer. Carmichael wasn’t even capable of an alibi. It didn’t
take long into the investigation for me to realize I had backed the wrong bloody horse.’

Carmichael hauled Jumper’s body out into the snow and stood over it. The wind and snow swirled around him, as if he stood inside a Christmas paperweight that someone had
shaken. Sophie had had one in her stocking. It was plastic with a reindeer inside. She had been so excited about Christmas. She came into their bed that last Christmas morning and hugged his neck
and he had breathed in her sleepy smell and knowing there would never be a more perfect love. Like the first day he’d held her in his arms, wet from the womb, and he’d vowed to protect
her forever.

‘Come on then.’ He had picked her up in his arms and carried her to the window and held her tightly as he opened the curtain very gradually. Sophie had held her breath for a few
seconds as she pressed her palms to the cold glass and then gasped. Outside the snow was falling.

Now the sky and the ground merged as the blizzard swirled around him and the dead sheep. He knelt beside Jumper and picked up handfuls of snow, his bloody hand leaving red prints on the white
ground. He took out the knife from his belt and began skinning her.

Sandford looked down from the window in the master bedroom at Blackdown Barn and watched the young policeman on duty at the gate. It was starting to snow again. The officer
outside had been there since seven. It was mid-morning now. Inside the house it had fallen quiet. His SOCO team of four were spread out throughout the house, conducting grid searches in each room.
He tapped on the window and the young officer turned around. Sandford made a T-sign with his fingers and the officer grinned and nodded. Just as Sandford turned back from the window his eye was
drawn up to the corner of the room and something sparkling there. He stood on the stepladder to reach into the corner of the ceiling cornice. A staple was punctured into the plaster. He picked out
the mini pliers from his tool belt and gently wiggled it free. With the staple came a tiny fragment of plastic sheeting. He looked at it on the edge of the pliers. He held it in his hand and phoned
Robbo.

‘What’s the thickness?’ Robbo asked.

‘I would say one mil. PVC.’ Sandford looked along the ceiling. ‘Puncture marks every metre.’

‘Okay,’ answered Robbo. ‘Rolls of plastic sheeting, one mil by a metre. I’ll find the manufacturers and get samples. How’s it looking out there? You dismantled the
whole house yet?’

‘Yeah, funny . . . nearly. We’re going to start digging up the basement today. Needed to get some results back from the gym equipment enquiry first.’

‘Yeah, I followed it up. There was a runner, a multi-gym, and an exercise bike down there. What’s the flooring?’

‘It’s felt. I’ll get it bagged up and sent your way before we start digging. Did the gym company say they’d cleaned it yet?’

‘Yes. It’s been sent out again so no chance of DNA from it. Do you think there’s a chance there’s a body under the basement?’

‘Could be. We’re still looking for the kid in the Arsenal shirt. We’ve put cameras down the drains, no extra vermin activity. No lumpy stuff that could be flesh. Pitch pipes
too; they’re old – at least fifty years – and they’re blistered so if there were any chunks of flesh larger than a couple of inches square they would have got
snagged.’

‘Is it freezing out there?’ Robbo reached over for the cafetière as he smiled to himself. The cafetière was wrapped in a leopard-print body warmer: a present from his
wife: tongue in cheek, homage to his feminine side. He found it really useful; it kept his coffee hot for an hour.

‘We’ve got heaters in the mobile unit out the front. We can make tea. But yes . . . it’s bloody freezing. I’m sure I’ll be used to it by the time I finish here
– either that or it’ll be spring. It’s a massive house.’

‘You can ask for a bigger team if you need to pace it up.’

‘No. I need to keep control of who’s dismantling what. There are four of us – that’s enough. If you’re interested you could come and take a look and lend a hand,
though?’

‘Wouldn’t want to get in your way.’

‘Very considerate.’

Robbo never left Fletcher House except to get in his car and drive home. In all the years Sandford had known Robbo he’d watched his agoraphobia grow. Without his realizing it Robbo was no
longer able to work away from his desk.

Sandford hung up and looked at the piece of plastic again; a fine blond hair was caught between it and the staple. He went across to the collection of samples he had on the floor and picked out
one of the small brown bags with a see-though square section in its front; on it he wrote:
piece of plastic from ceiling cornice, bedroom 1.