Dead of Winter (29 page)

Her kiss was sudden and he found himself responding automatically. His lips parted and her tongue slipped in, licking his teeth, drawing a groan from deep inside him. Her hands went around his back and pulled his chest onto hers. Her fingers were
strong, hungry, stroking down from his shoulders, along his spine to his belt.

She nibbled his lips; tiny little bites that made him gasp and kiss her back, like a drowning man sucking in air. Her fingers travelled round to the front of his belt and his hand flew to grip hers tightly.

‘No, I can’t.’ He almost shouted and she moved her hand.

‘There’s no such thing as can’t, didn’t they teach you that at school?’ Her fingers played with shirt buttons.

He pulled back, suddenly aware of what he was doing.

‘No,’ his voice was hoarse, ‘this isn’t right.’

She stared at him in surprise and tried to kiss him again but he turned his head.

‘What is it? Are you married; engaged; committed somehow?’

‘No.’ He shook his head but his heart was saying yes to her words, to all of them.

‘So what’s the problem?’

The table lamp behind her made her hair shine in a halo around her shoulders. Her face was beautiful; her figure a slender silhouette, utterly desirable. He was a widower of four years, an eligible bachelor; so what was it that was holding him back?

‘You’re not attached,’ she repeated with a smile and leant towards him again.

‘I’m a widower,’ he said and felt a fraud at the look of sympathy that settled on her face.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Normally I’m sensitive to grief, I pick up on emotions, but I had no idea.’ She backed off and picked up his cup. ‘Straighten yourself up while I go and fetch you a nightcap.’

Fenwick smoothed his shirt with trembling hands and did up his belt, easing himself into a more comfortable position, painfully aware of how aroused he was. What was holding him back; why had he lied? Because it was a lie. Yes, Monique had died but that was years ago and he had been in relationships since. It was unworthy of him to dissemble in this way.

‘Here, it’s camomile tea, good for you.’

Fenwick took the mug from her and put it on the table. She looked at him expectantly, almost as if his resistance had been for show and now he would behave as he truly wanted to.

‘Goodnight, Lulu. Thanks for a lovely dinner. I can sleep here; it won’t be a problem.’

She shook her head but brought him a pillow and blankets, casting one last look over her shoulder as she went into her bedroom.

The storm blew itself out around four in the morning. He was awake and heard it die but fell asleep shortly afterwards. At eight his phone rang.

‘Yes?’

‘Good news, sir, I should be with you in less than an hour. The A3’s open again and I’ve asked the highways agency to clear the route to St Anne’s as a priority because of Goldilocks.’ Tate’s enthusiasm was as bad as a cold shower.

‘Thank you.’ Fenwick broke the call and looked around to find Lulu staring at him from the doorway with her customary half smile.

‘Return to reality?’

He was drinking coffee and chewing his way through toast when his phone rang again to alert him to the fact that Tate’s car would arrive in ten minutes. He could hear the shower running and took his coffee into the living room.

He tried to study the sculptures; anything to distract his thoughts from the shower. He looked at the first piece without seeing it; his eyes moved on to the second and then the next. By the time he was looking at the fourth he realised that there might be a theme to the series that he could sense but not name. The shapes were abstract; voluptuous but also hard and purposeful. He walked slowly along the shelves, struggling to find the word to connect them and was about to give up when he spotted another bronze almost hidden behind a large book on Berthe Morisot.

He pushed the book to one side and gasped in shock. The statue was a perfect portrait of Nightingale.

‘What is it?’

Lulu had walked in behind him wrapped in a bathrobe, hair in a towel. She came and stood beside him, looking over his shoulder.

‘Oh that. It’s an early piece. Do you like it?’

‘It’s … I …’ Fenwick’s mind was reeling from shock and the confusion of guilt that had ambushed him. ‘An early piece … but then … who was the sitter?’

Lulu smiled at him.

‘Why me, of course. It’s a self-portrait.’

She just managed to steady the mug as it tipped from his hand.

Mariner had almost forgotten that detectives were battling through atrocious weather conditions trying to find him. He had even lost track of the date until a letter had arrived that made him look at his watch for the first time in days. The nineteenth; this was their two-week anniversary!

He stared at the blizzard outside, mesmerised by the chaos of snowflakes. It was his sort of storm. It covered all tracks, including the twisting path to the recently abandoned cottage. The previous owners had been evicted because of mortgage arrears – he knew from the letters left behind. Not killing the albatross had changed his fortune, he was sure of that. Before he would have been captured within hours, but now, he leant back with a small grunt, anything was possible.

There was no furniture in the cottage but it had an old-style solid fuel Aga that kept the kitchen warm and provided the means for hot food. That was one of the reasons he had picked it out along with several others from the dozens listed on the agent’s particulars, all due for auction and a quick sale. It had been third time lucky finding it. The first two hadn’t been suitable. One turned out to be a semi and the other was at the end of a cul-de-sac. This one was
just right. Although both gas and electricity had been disconnected the water was still running. There was a downstairs WC, brutally freezing but he didn’t linger, just did his business and left sharpish. With the camping gear and food from home, plus what he had bought after leaving the pump station, they’d had enough to last for several days.

When that ran out he had risked the short walk to an all-night cheap and cheerful shop that had a decent frozen-food cabinet, fresh bread and milk and budget-price whisky. He had been twice and each time there was a different youth serving who was more worried about the kids pinching stuff than a quiet, cash-paying customer.

He was careful with the torch after dark. So far no one had stopped by except the postman from time to time, but he knew his routine and made sure the house was silent before he arrived. He remembered the estate agent’s brief description: ‘secluded’ they’d called it. Bloody remote more like. Still it had suited him fine … until now.

Steve sighed. It was time to leave. The letter crushed in his palm told him that. The house was to be auctioned before Christmas according to the notice the bank had sent to the previous owners. Why? They were long gone but perhaps the lenders were required to send it by law, or it was an administrative screw-up. Whatever, it had been another piece of luck that warned him there could be visitors before long. So best be gone. He pulled his eyes away from the storm and took in the immediate view: camp bed, two sleeping bags, camping gaz, empty cardboard boxes, the girl slouched against the Aga.

‘Wake up.’ He tapped her cheek lightly in an attempt to rouse her.

There was a bruise by her eye that made him feel embarrassed but he told himself she had deserved a little bit of correction. The girl groaned and turned her face away.

‘Wake up! Issie,’ he whispered, stroking her greasy hair back in a gesture that made her eyelids flicker but underneath all he could see were the whites.

‘Come on, darlin’, wake up.’

‘Ngh?’ A frown line appeared then cleared as her eyes cracked open.

‘It’s Badger, come on Issie.’

A look that was something like terror flashed across her face, making him angry. Behind the anger was something else that he wouldn’t identify. He lifted her up carefully, keeping his face out of reach of those sharp little teeth but it was an unnecessary precaution as her head lolled away from him and her eyes closed again.

She was so light. It had been two days since she had eaten. The hunger strike was her latest attempt to force him to let her go. As they had been low on provisions he’d left her to it but now he needed her strong. He hugged her, used to the stale smell of her filthy clothes and the feel of gritty skin.

‘We’re going to leave, darling, and you must eat something before we go.’

Issie’s eyes opened wide, the hope in them more than he could bear.

‘Don’t say it!’ He let her go and she fell to the floor, banging the back of her head. He ignored her and leant over to make some tea. ‘You aren’t going home yet; we just need to find somewhere else.’

While the water heated he searched in the box for some food to tempt her with. There were cheese and onion crisps, a chocolate bar and the last of the milk. That would do. He opened the carton.

‘Here.’ He poured milk into the top of a thermos and held it to her mouth. Issie drank greedily and he rewarded her obedience with a pat on her head. Then she started to choke.

‘Whoa, you’ll make yourself sick. You can have some more later. Hungry?’

‘No.’ It was a tiny whisper.

‘You’ve got to eat. Come on, chocolate or crisps?’ She shook her head. ‘If you don’t you’ll get more than another slap. I’m not kidding.’

Issie cringed away from him and said, in the voice of a
five-year-old
, ‘Choc’late.’

He broke the bar into tiny pieces and fed her patiently, cupping the back of her head with his palm as she chewed. When she’d had enough she closed her eyes and lay back on the floor.

‘Issie.’

She shook her head but he needed her help.

‘Where shall we go?’

Her expression turned to one of confusion.

‘We have to leave; where shall we go?’

‘Home?’ The pleading in her voice was pathetic.

‘Don’t be stupid. I’m talking about you and me. Home’s not going to work now, is it? We need somewhere to stay that’s warm and quiet.’

He could see her struggling to think and it sort of amused him. She was meant to be the smart one. Issie mumbled something.

‘What?’

‘Nana’s,’ she repeated and opened her eyes with effort, trying to concentrate.

‘I told you, don’t be stupid.’

But she insisted.

‘Nana’s.’

‘She’ll be there, won’t she?’

‘No. In Australia for Chris’mas. House’s empty.’

‘Where is it?’

‘South Downs, near Alfriston, not far.’

‘And you’re sure it will be empty?’ She nodded briefly then winced. ‘Neighbours?’

‘Not close. In countryside.’

‘Give me directions.’

‘Too difficult. I’ll show you.’

He slapped her for being stupid; how could she direct him from inside the boot of the car, which is where he would have to put her. She barely flinched. After she had drunk her milk Issie asked for more chocolate. The food seemed to do her good so he made her a cup of tea. This time, she was able to hold the cup herself and when he asked for directions again her voice was stronger.

‘It’s difficult,’ she insisted, ‘but I can take you there. I know the way.’

‘Do you promise to sit on the floor and do nothing?’

‘What can I do like this?’ Issie gestured with her chin to her bound hands and feet.

‘OK, but nothing funny or you’ll be back in the boot. Have you got keys to the place?’

‘Nana keeps a spare set in the bird feeder by the porch. We’ll be able to get in, don’t worry.’

It took only minutes to pack the car despite the snow. The blizzard would make driving difficult but it was perfect cover for his journey. Just to be on the safe side he double-checked that the oily mud he had smeared on the number plates hadn’t washed off. When everything was ready he bundled Issie into the footwell of the front passenger seat from where she could give him directions while being out of sight. The lane to the cottage was overhung with trees that had protected the ungritted surface from the worst of the snow; just as well, really, or the postman wouldn’t have delivered the letter. When they reached the A272 the driving conditions improved a little, though the dual carriageway was reduced to narrow single lanes in both directions. He turned east. There was hardly any traffic and they managed to drive past Billingshurst without incident. Mariner stayed on the main highway not daring to risk the minor roads.

A police patrol car passed in the other direction south of Haywards Heath and he put his foot down instinctively only to feel the rear tyres start to slide. Easing off immediately he stared in the rear-view mirror at its tail lights, waiting to see the red flash of braking that would tell him it was all over, but they just carried on and he started to breathe again. A short while afterwards they came to the A275 where he turned south towards Lewes and the A27. The road was in worse condition so he slowed to around twenty miles an hour, to the annoyance of the female driving a Range Rover behind him. As soon as she could she pulled out, hooting her horn as she passed. Mariner didn’t care; let her risk her neck, stupid cow.

The roads around Lewes were busy and he became stuck in a traffic jam. He checked that he had locked the doors and stuffed a rag in Issie’s mouth in case she was tempted to try something. After thirty minutes they reached the main junction with the A27 and he was able to speed up a little, but no sooner had he done so than the low fuel warning light started flashing.

‘Shit! How much further?’ He reached down and yanked out the gag.

‘Five to ten miles.’

‘Can’t you be more precise?’

‘That’s my best guess.’

He couldn’t afford to run out of petrol so that meant buying some. Would his card work; would hers? He didn’t have much money left; what was he going to do? He decided to pull over into a lay-by to give himself some time to think. As he did so he saw the Range Rover that had overtaken him parked at the far end with the woman standing beside it glaring. She started walking over immediately. If he drove off she might suspect something. If she came close to the car … he shoved the gag deeper into Issie’s mouth and wrapped his scarf up to his nose. He opened the glove compartment and found a heavy metal-cased torch. Mariner stepped out, pulling his hood down almost to his nose.

‘It was making a noise and now it won’t start,’ the woman said without ceremony. ‘The repair people said it will be an hour before they can get here and I’ll freeze to death in that time. Could you give me a lift as far as Beddingham, I can wait at a friend’s there.’ Not even a please or thank you but that didn’t surprise him.

No way was she getting near his car. He gripped the torch harder, testing its weight.

‘Let me have a look for you.’ His voice was muffled by the scarf.

‘I doubt you’ll do any better than I did,’ she retorted dismissively, but at least she was no longer heading towards his vehicle but was retreating to her own, taking silly little steps.

Mariner reached the car before she did and opened the driver’s door. The key was still in the ignition so he climbed in and turned
it gently. The engine spluttered and almost caught. A little less fuel this time he thought and tried again. It started on the third attempt, just as the woman opened the passenger door.

‘Oh! Well why didn’t it do that for me?’ She glared at the offending dashboard. ‘Well never mind, thank you.’

She waited for Mariner to vacate the driver’s seat and slid over. He watched her go feeling very pleased. Not only had he been the hero of the moment, he hadn’t needed to hurt her and he had also been able to help himself to a bundle of notes straight from the cash machine that she had obligingly stuffed in the side pocket of her handbag, between the front seats. He jumped into the Mondeo and set off at once in case she noticed the money was gone.

There was a petrol station with a car park in Beddingham, east of Lewes. Mariner pulled in behind an articulated lorry absent its driver. In the shadow cast by the truck he removed enough from the boot to make room for Issie and then pushed her inside, taped her mouth shut and bound her feet tight with a loop around her neck.

The cold went straight to his bladder and he decided he needed to pee before filling up. He was still wearing the scarf around his face and his hooded sweatshirt with the thick, brown sheepskin coat. The money was in his pocket, all two hundred and fifty pounds of it. With only his cheeks and eyes visible he walked into the shop adjoining the petrol station looking for the gents. There was a television on above the counter tuned to a local news channel. He ignored it and followed the signs to the back of the shop.

‘It’s that poor missing kid, isn’t it?’ a woman said to the man next to her standing by the freezer choosing a pizza.

‘Terrible. But it looks like they know who done it. See there.’

Mariner froze. Although he had assumed the police would be looking for him, so far it hadn’t been real. He didn’t dare turn towards the screen but shuffled past with his back towards them, his shoulder blades crawling. Should he just leave? But that would look suspicious. The lad behind the checkout looked as thick as two short planks and was busy chatting up a girl who had come in pretending to buy a lottery ticket but was really only after
attention. He picked up some milk, biscuits and two sliced loaves at random and walked quickly to the counter where he asked for forty Marlboro. All the while he kept listening to the news report.

‘…
More than two weeks after the disappearance of Isabelle Mattias the police are reminding the public that anyone seeing a cream Ford Mondeo registration ST EV 77 should get in touch with the incident room at Surrey Constabulary. Do not approach the car or the man, Steven Mariner, aged thirty-five. If you see anything suspicious call the number on the screen immediately. The police advise extreme caution.’

He thought he was going to be sick, right there on the floor with all of them looking but he managed to swallow, take his change and leave the shop. Once outside, he ran to the car and threw the shopping on the back seat. He relieved himself in the bushes, lit a cigarette with shaking hands and inhaled deeply before starting the engine. He had put the Mondeo in gear before he realised it would be stupid to drive off. The police had the registration number and he had almost no petrol. Shit! What could he do? Mariner looked around the car park. He would’ve been able to break into anything once, in the days when the Mariner boys had learnt to drive at the expense of the neighbourhood car owners, but that was years back and security was more sophisticated now. He scanned the cars nearby, looking for older models. Nothing … no wait, there, a Land Rover parked at the far end on its own. What better for these conditions?