The Winter Killings, page 1
THE WINTER KILLINGS
WES MARKIN
To Claire and Stuart
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Epilogue
More from Wes Markin
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Wes Markin
The Murder List
About Boldwood Books
PROLOGUE
The vastness. Alive with snowfall.
Such sights!
She peels off her gloves. She reaches out. Cold stabs her fingertips.
Heavy ice crystals, growing heavier.
Spiralling.
White settles on dark.
Dead stars above. Light freed. It reaches her eyes.
Into her.
Around me.
She now belongs.
His noise does not compare to this freedom.
His pleas mean nothing.
The snow blankets him.
The dead of winter.
Snow. Stars. Bitter winds.
His corpse. Alive with hunger and need.
Watch them eat!
She observes. Sees the scavengers. Cold stabbing teeth.
Vultures pick. Rats gnaw.
She draws closer. Wants to share.
Scavengers depart. The appetites of nature do not care for her.
They are blameless.
Never has she felt like this.
Spiralled like this.
Shone like this.
Spring’s renewal.
Warm red stone. Feeding insects. Awakening birds.
His remains. Alive with invisibility.
See the bacteria dissolve him!
She kneels. She surveys. Microorganisms are not for her eyes.
The insignificance of human wanting. Not nature’s concern.
Who can blame it?
Happy in the vastness. Quarry stone beneath her feet. Forestry offering isolation.
Cold water down her throat. A shirt stuck to damp skin.
Energy and movement.
Everywhere.
For her, for nature.
Except for him.
His energy is back with the world. His return to nothing at an end.
The height of summer.
An overturned cart. Bones. Chains.
The fields and trees. Alive with colour.
Observe the world reborn!
She touches. She considers. A white shape of nothing on red rocks.
Dust on dust.
Shortening days. Softening lights.
Energy inside her.
I am reborn!
Evil stripped bare.
Autumn’s harvest.
Separation.
A skull with no body. A body with no skull.
The fruits of my labour.
1
While finishing her pint, DCI Emma Gardner regarded the tapestry on the wall in front of her; carefully woven woollen and silken threads depicted Knaresborough Castle. Knights, readied for battle, occupied the scene’s foreground.
When her empty pint glass was back down on the solid wood table, she panned her gaze to the bar where her colleague was ordering their next round and smiled. There was nothing Gardner enjoyed more than a mid-week pint or two in an olde-worlde pub.
Having been born and raised in the southern medieval city of Salisbury, rustic drinking holes were part of her tapestry. And Blind Jack’s, with its beamed ceilings and flagstone floors, reminded her so dearly of home.
The only element that disappointed up here, in Yorkshire, was the ale.
There weren’t many ales in the world that stood a chance against Summer Lightning, a golden ale produced locally by Hopback Brewery in Wiltshire. Since being seconded to North Yorkshire eighteen months ago, Gardner had contended with many new flavours before gravitating towards the local delicacy of Yankee – a pale ale brewed by Rooster’s Brewing Company. Despite not even coming close to Summer Lightning, she wondered if, in time, she could grow to love it. In the same way she’d come to love Yorkshire itself.
Her thoughts on Salisbury gave her a momentary feeling of homesickness, and she realised then that maybe the choice of ale and décor wasn’t the main reason for sudden nostalgia.
Maybe it was the freedom she’d enjoyed back then? To hit the local taverns after a day’s graft and dissolve everything into a blur; or shoot ideas back and forth over a current case.
Such freedom, these days, was proving to be way out of her budget.
Recently divorced, Gardner was bringing up two young girls. Her eight-year-old daughter, Ana, and her nine-year-old niece, Rose. Although reasonably well-paid as a DCI, her often erratic hours, combined with a lack of any family in the area, made it necessary to employ Monika Kowalska, an au pair from Poland. Add to that, her grace period of accommodation provided for her with her secondment had expired, and rent was through the roof.
Yes, things were bleak, and getting bleaker.
So, five plus pints of beer several nights a week in a pub was an indulgent freedom that was out of the question. For now, she thought with a grin, let’s stick with once a week, and see how we go.
She looked through the window at the monolithic, glamorous tree in the market square, and felt the bubbles of anxiety. The costs associated with entertaining two young children at Christmas were not to be sniffed at.
Really, I shouldn’t be here at all, and I wouldn’t be if not for—
Lucy O’Brien put the pint glass down in front of Gardner. ‘Wonder if this one slips down as quickly as the last one?’
Gardner smiled. ‘I’m happy to try it.’
Because there’s nothing I enjoy more, Gardner thought, staring into O’Brien’s eyes, than your company right now.
O’Brien held her gaze and returned the smile, causing Gardner to feel her usual spike of guilt and look away.
O’Brien was late twenties, and so considerably younger than her. She was also a detective constable, which made Gardner her superior.
Two red flags.
Two red flags that were ignored when O’Brien had asked her out for a drink three weeks back.
And had continued to be ignored every week since.
Gardner wasn’t gay, had never considered herself gay, and still couldn’t really believe that this possibility was on the table. But O’Brien’s company was having a profound effect on her. It was undeniable. Intoxicating.
And, as for O’Brien, well, she was openly gay. She’d also dropped many hints that she’d had a crush on Gardner that she was convinced she wasn’t misreading. Whereas flirtatious smiles, brief touches on the arm and long social conversations in her office could be passed off as an extremely close friendship, some of O’Brien’s most recent moves had just been too telling.
She’d been there for Gardner at every turn.
Every rough turn.
Above and beyond.
Whether that be to provide her with a cereal bar for breakfast in an incident room when Gardner’s nights had got late and fraught; or, after the breakdown of her marriage, providing herself as a shoulder to cry on; and, more recently, and far more significantly, taking her children to stay with her sister when Gardner worried that there may be some kind of threat at their own home.
Gardner took a large mouthful of her drink. Three weeks into this social arrangement, she realised Yankee was, in fact, tasting better. ‘I could get used to this.’
‘The beer?’
‘Yes, I—’ She broke off after catching O’Brien’s raised eyebrow. What’re you implying? ‘But the company stands up too.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
Christmas was always impossible to ignore. Whether it was the lit-u
Wow… had she really just said that?
She picked up her pint and drank. Several mouthfuls in, she glanced at O’Brien, who was beaming.
What am I doing?
‘It really is slipping down faster than the last one, isn’t?’ O’Brien said and chuckled.
Gardner put the glass down and looked at it. ‘Been a long week. What am I saying? It’s always a bloody long—’
She felt O’Brien’s fingers on her arm.
Another innocuous touch?
But if so, why am I tingling all over?
‘The girls would love it if you came.’
‘So would I.’
Shit, Gardner thought, tempted to finish her pint, but holding back, knowing how ridiculous it’d look to throw it back in so short a time.
She smiled at O’Brien.
Intoxication.
What the hell am I doing?
2
Henry Ackroyd had only been here for three days.
He wasn’t yet used to the stench of piss, which had made him throw up more than once; or the rising damp, which seemed to reach out and clutch at him like a cold, clammy hand.
Still, Jay had given him some hope. ‘If you trust Tommy, if you do as he says, he’ll look after you. You’ll get used to it all, and you’ll enjoy the rewards.’
If anyone would know, then Jay would. He’d been here for a while. At least, he acted as if he’d been here a while. Working for Tommy Rose, taking the phone calls, welcoming in the junkies, serving up the product. The job fitted him like a glove.
So, despite his concerns, Henry had remained positive. He’d his brother Archie’s advice to thank for that. ‘I give them all the same advice first day,’ Archie had said when he’d reached the lofty heights of store manager in a local McDonald’s. ‘You want to keep your job? Best to smile when you serve those burgers. Positivity always wins the race.’
Of course, Henry had known that this was all sanctimonious bullshit. His brother would never have the balls to say such things in the modern world, but the sentiment of what he’d said rang true. And it rang true in a cold house that stank of piss.
Positivity always wins the race.
And when Henry collected his first payment, it’d be more than Archie could ever imagine earning!
Talk about irony.
Henry paced the lounge, burner phone in hand, taking calls. The pacing helped to keep him warm.
He was too cold to sit still on the battered sofa. He regarded the television leaning against the yellowing wall, and the attached PlayStation, and realised he’d never seen them in operation. This job didn’t throw up much free time. They worked through the night, serving addicts and rich yuppies.
Sleep when you’re dead, not when you can make money.
Besides, 5 a.m. to midday was quiet. Plenty of time to snooze.
He caught a break between phone calls and stood over at the dusty old mantelpiece, observing his face in a cloudy mirror. He wasn’t yet out of his twenties, and his hair was already thinning. His brother was five years older and hadn’t yet lost a strand.
‘Archie the arsehole,’ he said and noticed, in the bottom right corner of the mirror, that someone had written their name in the dirt.
Dan.
My predecessor?
On the first evening, Henry had asked Jay what’d happened to his predecessor.
‘Just do as Tommy says. Take what he gives you. Nothing more. If you do that, you’ll be fine…’
Henry wondered if Dan had ignored Jay’s advice. He also wondered, with a shiver running down his spine, whether writing his name in the dirt with his finger was Dan’s last act on this earth.
He shrugged, turned and continued to pace. Dan had obviously not done what he’d been told.
He’d nothing to worry about. He’d been following Tommy’s rules to the letter. Not that there were many. In fact, there’d only really been one. ‘Just do what you’ve been doing small time, lad. Sell. Except, now, do it big time.’
Henry had been happy to oblige.
And, stinking as it may be, he had a roof over his head, and the promise of a first pay packet in four days. That it was illegal and immoral didn’t bother him. His rules for living were simple.
If someone else is prepared to do it, then don’t be a dickhead and opt out!
He once had a girlfriend who’d buzzed with morality. He’d watched her turn down well-paid jobs if they weren’t ethical enough. That was a lot of jobs.
‘Cutting your nose off to spite your face,’ he’d told her.
‘Get out of my life,’ she’d eventually said.
Sod her, he’d thought. Enjoy being a librarian for the rest of your life.
And it now seemed like he’d made the right move. I stand to win big, if I can keep my dinner down, and the hypothermia at bay…
‘Hey.’ It was Jay, standing at the lounge door.
Jay came across as a man who’d been in this game a while. Which, according to Henry’s calculations, should make him a big winner. Not that he looked, or sounded, like one. With a long, lank mop and uncontrolled facial hair, he cut a dishevelled figure.
In three days, Henry had yet to see him change his clothes.
It was genius, really. If anyone from the law came to the door, would they suspect this man of being a flush dealer? They certainly wouldn’t want to get close enough to find out! He stank.
Another thing he’d noticed about Jay was that he drank like a fish. And not just beer, either, but spirits. Morning, noon and night, he’d seen him glugging from vodka bottles at regular intervals.
Henry was no stranger to alcoholics – his father had been one. Men like that couldn’t function without high levels of alcohol in their bloodstream. And, with it in their bloodstream, they could give some appearance of normality.
Before you keeled over clutching your rotten stomach, of course. Which his own father had eventually done.
He wondered if Tommy knew about Jay’s drinking.
And if he didn’t, would he care that one of his most prolific dealers was a high-functioning alcoholic?
As Jay came into the lounge, swigging from a Coke bottle, clearly laced with vodka, Henry wondered if this was an angle he could exploit. Would Tommy appreciate the truth? Would Tommy promote him to the key man and replace Jay with a new apprentice?
Maybe that’s what had happened regarding Dan?
Out with the old… in with the new.
‘We’re off the clock for one hour,’ Jay said. ‘Switch off. Completely.’
Henry killed his burner. ‘Why?’
Jay sat on the battered sofa and sighed. ‘Tommy’s on his way.’
‘Really?’
Jay rubbed his temples. ‘He wants us to do something.’
Tommy’s visit seemed rather sudden.
Shit! Have I cocked up? ‘What does he want us to do?’ Henry asked.
Jay didn’t look up. ‘Not sure. But just do as he says, like always, and everything will be fine.’
‘Bit out of the blue, though, eh? What does he want?’
