Dead of Winter Page 2

  On the road, snow began falling more heavily. Branches were cracking under the weight, sounding like human bones snapping. Wipers squeaked across the windshield, spreading the increasingly dense flakes of snow across it. Visibility lessened. A mist was forming. Harold ploughed onwards. Steady. The twisty road looked eerie. A ghost’s entrails.

  Within minutes of travelling, the wipers scything the windscreen began leaving chalky smudges in their wake, making visibility even more difficult. He reached to turn the radio on. That was when the obscure figure standing on the edge of the road came suddenly into view.

  And he was heading straight for it.

  ‘Fuck!’ Pressing down heavily on the brakes, he curved the steering wheel with all his strength. The Rover skidded haphazardly across the road, wheels spinning wildly. Harold held his breath. Seconds later, the vehicle came to a thunderous stop, cushioned by a pyramid of hardened snow leaning against an embankment.

  Thankfully, there was no on-coming traffic.

  Inside the Rover, Harold tried to regain his composure. Hands were shaking. Skin clammy. He tried steadying his breathing. Had he made contact with the suicidal maniac? He dreaded the thought of leaving the vehicle to investigate; thought about speeding off as quickly as possible, knowing there would be no witnesses in sight.

  A movement in the rear-view mirror caught his eye. The figure was moving, seemingly unhurt.

  Opening the door, Harold leapt out into the thick snow, quickly going on the offensive.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he growled, walking clumsily towards the figure. ‘Trying to get us killed?’

  ‘I…I’m sorry. I didn’t see you coming up the road. The snow was blinding me.’

  ‘Well, that’s no damn excuse for…’ Harold’s voice trailed off. The figure was a woman. She wasn’t beautiful, but there was something striking about her. She looked terribly frightened. Tiny flakes of snow and ice encrusted her eyelashes. Her lips were slightly parted, dry and chapped from the bitter cold.

  ‘I’m sorry, my car broke down near the Serpentine Road,’ said the woman. ‘I tried calling emergency services, but no response. Someone down the road told me there’s a petrol station nearby. I was on my way to ask for help.’

  ‘Yes…there’s one a further mile or so up the road. You’d be mad to walk to it, though.’ Harold relaxed the tension in his face muscles, noticing for the first time the oddity of her eyes. One blue. One green. ‘You’re lucky you made it this far without getting hit by something. Come on. I’ll drop you off. I don’t live too far from the station.’

  Her eyes seemed to look beyond him. A blank stare was the only response, as if she hadn’t heard the offer. Another few seconds went by and she still hadn’t spoken.

  Harold shook his head, turning his attention back to the road. ‘Suit yourself, then. Walk. Don’t say you weren’t warned.’ He headed back towards the Rover and got in.

  Once seated, he looked in the rear-view. The woman remained standing at the side of the road, defiantly, snow filtering over her.

  He started the Rover and began exaggerating the accelerator with his right foot. The metal beast roared like a bull in heat. Harold’s eyes never once left the mirror.

  ‘No! Wait!’ she shouted, scuttling across the road, slip-sliding awkwardly on icy patches and snow.

  Harold smiled. Unlocked the passenger door. Waited.

  ‘Good to see common sense prevailing,’ he said. ‘Soon have you nice and warm.’

  Keeping her eyes on him, she slowly eased onto the leather passenger seat. The extreme shift in temperature seemed to catch her off-guard as she closed the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  ‘Don’t mention it. That’s my good deed for the day. I always say, what goes around comes around. Harold’s the name, Miss…?’

  ‘Kerry…’ said the woman, hesitantly. ‘Kerry Morgan.’

  ‘In this weather we should make it to the petrol station in about twenty minutes. Put your seatbelt on, Kerry. We don’t want any more accidents.’ Harold’s voice sounded all fatherly.

  Kerry nervously fiddled with the seatbelt, missing the buckle twice before finally finding its niche.

  The belt’s strap pronounced her breasts and Harold felt the blood stir in his stomach. He became aware of her womanly smells mingling with the leather aroma from the Rover’s seats. A throbbing but pleasurable pain began worming its way into his crotch area, hardwiring pheromone to his brain. He wondered what she would look like naked in the bathtub in his cellar?

  ‘Are you from around here, Kerry?’

  ‘No. I…I live in Bangor. I was heading to Mallusk to visit my parents. It’s my mother’s birthday, tomorrow.’ A faint smile appeared on her face.

  To Harold, the smile looked forced. Nerves? Shyness? He couldn’t determine, only that the pain in his cock was intensifying. There was only one cure for that particular pain.

  It was then that he decided he would hurt her. Badly.

  He gunned the Rover forward, showing-off its muscular prowess. The brute roared with satisfaction before munching its way greedily through the snow.

  For the next few minutes of driving, silence accompanied them, until Harold finally decided to break it.

  ‘Must have been frightening, travelling from Bangor in all that snow, Kerry?’

  Kerry nodded slightly. ‘Yes. It was my first time driving in such conditions. I’ll never do it again, I can tell you. It was very scary.’

  ‘Well, it’s good we don’t get this kind of weather too–’

  ‘Arghhhhhhh.’ Kerry suddenly held her stomach tightly. She buckled forward slightly.

  ‘What is it, Kerry? Are you okay?’

  ‘Ohhhhhhhh, my stomach. Stop. I need to get out.’

  ‘What’s the–?’

  ‘Stop! I need to get out, right now!’ Kerry began struggling with the seat belt.

  ‘Okay, okay! Take it easy.’ Harold quickly eased the Rover over to the side of the road.

  ‘It…it must be something I ate earlier.’ Kerry looked queasy. ‘I need to go to the toilet, really badly. This is embarrassing. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ assured Harold, smiling. ‘When nature calls, we all have to answer it.’

  Kerry stepped quickly from the Rover, glancing all about, looking lost.

  ‘Down that little pathway,’ said Harold, pointing at an old walkway no longer in use. ‘Plenty of trees to give you a bit of privacy. Don’t take too long, though. It’ll freeze the arse off you.’

  The woman moved quickly but gingerly down the pathway, gripping onto bushes for balance. She looked back once, and then disappeared behind thickets and uprooted trees long gone to rot.

  Harold’s eyes never left her.

  He tried picturing Kerry on her hunkers, vulnerable and exposed, panties handcuffed around her ankles. The urge to sneak down and watch her was overwhelming. But what if she caught him? That would give the game away. Why risk it? In about forty minutes he would have her all to himself. The thought of her beautiful panties wrapped around her ankles, though, gave him a lovely shiver. The urge became stronger, more intense.

  ‘Fuck it.’ He quickly opened the glove compartment. Found the serrated hunting knife. Touched its curved teeth with his index finger. A tingling sensation shot through his body. He licked dry lips before sliding the knife up the sleeve of his coat, careful of the weapon’s deadly honed blade.

  Stepping quickly out of the Rover, he glanced up and down the Antrim Road. Not a sinner in sight. The urge in his pants began tormenting him again. His cock was quickly becoming rock-hard. The hardwiring in his brain began sizzling with electricity. His skull felt on fire. He wanted her. Needed her. Now.

  Silently, he tracked the exact same path as Kerry. He could see where her dainty footprints led the way, before being disrupted by a scattering rock formation.

  For fuck sake, which way did she go? She can’t have got too far in this sno
w.

  Suddenly, he heard a faded rustling sound, just beyond a heavily snowed hedging.

  He stopped all movement. His back went taut. He brought the knife out. This would be easy. There! He could see the top of her head now, clearly, just beyond the far hedging. She seemed to be standing, looking all about.

  His heart began pumping buckets of blood into his brain. His knees felt weak. Wobbly. It had been a long time since he had felt this beautiful sensation.

  She disappeared from view.

  Fuck! Where’d she go? Probably behind the hedging, squatting on her hunkers. Probably got the shits. He pictured her naked again.

  His hands began trembling as he edged closer, desperately trying to control his breathing. He sniffed the air like a wolf hunting down its victim. She was close by. He could smell her.

  ‘Harold?’ said a whispery male voice behind him.

  ‘What the fuck…?’ He turned. His eyes went immediately to the gun pointing directly at his face. A muscle in his cheek jumped. Stomach tightened.

  ‘Who the hell are you? What do you want?’

  The man said nothing, just kept pointing the gun. A few seconds later, Kerry reappeared, face flushed.

  ‘Don’t you remember me, Harold?’ the man asked.

  Harold shook his head. ‘No, I’ve never set eyes…’ Just as he said the last word, it came to him. The courtroom. The stoic relatives who sat there, day after day. The blood drained from his face, as if his throat had just been cut.

  The man smiled. ‘Now you remember, Harold. Don’t you? This day’s been a long time coming, but it’s finally arrived…’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE BONE COLLECTOR

  ‘He knows death to the bone.’

  W.B. Yeats, Death

  Karl stood at the office doorway of best friend and forensic pathologist Tom Hicks. The pathologist’s face was ghostly green, mirrored by a flickering computer screen. Karl could see ant-size digits running riot on Tom’s face and glasses.

  ‘Hello, Tom.’

  ‘Karl…?’ said Hicks, glancing up from his computer. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Lovely greeting. Haven’t seen your grumpy old gob in months, and that’s what I get for coming to visit you, down in this dank, cold, bloody dungeon?’

  Hicks made a grunting sound. ‘This surprise visit wouldn’t have anything to do with severed hands and a reward of twenty thousand pounds?’

  ‘You’re such a cynic, Tom. Anyone ever tell you that?’

  ‘Yes. You. Each time I catch you out. Anyway, how is Katie doing?’

  Karl seemed to hesitate before answering. ‘She’s taking each day as it comes.’ His voice became sombre. ‘She’s still undergoing intensive therapy after that scumbag, Hannah, abducted her.’

  ‘Young people nowadays are very resilient, Karl,’ assured Hicks. ‘Katie will soon be back to her old self. Just you wait and see.’

  ‘I…I suppose you’re right,’ said Karl, believing the opposite.

  ‘What about the locksmith? The one who had his throat cut. Last I heard, his condition was downgraded from critical to serious.’

  ‘Willie?’ Hicks’ question brought flies buzzing around inside Karl’s stomach. He felt slightly queasy with guilt. ‘Finally got out of hospital two weeks ago. I visited him yesterday. Recuperating well.’

  ‘According to reports, he was lucky to have come out of that alive – you all were, with the exception of the two killed in the explosion, Burns and Hannah.’ Hicks looked accusingly at Karl. ‘Blowing up Crumlin Road Prison? Doesn’t get much bigger than that, Karl.’

  Karl didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking. ‘I only have condolences for Brendan Burns. Hannah can burn in hell.’

  ‘Burns was the bomber, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s what they say.’ The annoying flies were trying desperately to escape through Karl’s mouth. He could feel dread creeping across his face.

  ‘According to the report I read, he was also the man who tried killing Wilson years ago, leaving him scarred for life.’ Hicks looked accusingly at Karl. ‘You knew that, of course.’

  ‘Eventually.’

  ‘Eventually? Sometimes I think you never weigh up the consequences of your actions, Karl.’ Hicks shook his head. ‘Consequences can be for a lifetime. Burns will end up being one of those consequences, as far as Wilson is concerned. He’ll never forgive or forget your association with him.’

  ‘Fuck Wilson. He hates me, anyway. It was a small price to pay for Katie’s freedom. To me, Burns was a hero. He sacrificed his life for Katie, while Wilson and his useless crew did ring a ring o’ rosies.’

  ‘What…?’ Hicks looked taken aback. ‘What on earth are you talking about? From all accounts, I thought Wilson pulled out all the stops in trying to find Katie?’

  ‘There are things best not talked about, Tom, for your own benefit. The less you know, the less possibility of you being dragged into any future criminal proceedings?’

  ‘Criminal proceedings? What criminal proceedings? What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Let’s just drop it. Okay?’

  Hicks sighed. ‘Okay. Your face is telling me I’ve reached a dead end. Despite my concerns, at the end of the day I’m always on your side, right or wrong. That will never change. You know, don’t you?’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me that. I already knew it, the first day we met in school.’ Karl grinned at the memory. ‘I protected you from all those bullies with wet dreams about beating the crap out of you.’

  ‘You’re the only person I know can make violence sound creepily erotic,’ said Hicks, approaching a battered coffee machine encrusted with dirt and hardened grease. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no.’

  Karl took a seat while watching Hicks pour the thick liquid into two mugs. Coffee dregs, no larger than full stops, began haplessly rearranging themselves in dodgy oily patterns.

  ‘Enjoy.’ Hicks handed a full mug to Karl.

  ‘You could tar and feather some poor bastard with this,’ said Karl, taking a suspicious sip before making a face. ‘Ghastly shit.’

  ‘How’s your father? The last time we spoke, he wasn’t in the best of health.’ Hicks blew on the coffee. Drank. Unlike Karl, though, he didn’t make a face, as if he were immune to the potent oil-like liquid.

  Karl thought for a moment before answering. ‘His mental health isn’t the best. Hardly knows what day it is. These days, I don’t even think he recognises me anymore.’

  ‘Oh…I’m really sorry to hear that, Karl. Will you tell him I was asking about him…I mean…’

  ‘It’s okay. I know what you mean. Yes, I’ll tell him tomorrow. I’ve a visit arranged up at the nursing home.’

  Both men sipped at the coffee. The only sound came from the humming computer.

  ‘You’ve got about ten more minutes before I kick you out,’ said Hicks, finally breaking the silence.

  ‘What’s your rush?’

  ‘I’ve a hand to examine.’

  ‘The one found yesterday?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I feel very close to that hand. Make sure you take care of it.’

  ‘How so?’ said Hicks, his left eyebrow suddenly curving into a hairy question mark.

  ‘Because the bloody hand was left on my bloody doorstep, yesterday morning. That’s how bloody so.’

  Hicks almost spat a mouthful of coffee out. ‘You’re winding me up.’

  ‘My severed hand to god,’ replied Karl, raising his hand to chest level. ‘I had Wilson’s schoolboy detective questioning me about it. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Detective Chambers?’

  ‘Yes. With him on the trail, the killer – or killers – won’t be having any sleepless nights. I thought he was going to faint when he saw the hand and blood.’

  ‘Well, he’ll soon be joined by some old warhorse named Harry McCormack, if the rumours are true.’

  ‘Har
ry McCormack?’ Karl’s heart popped slightly. ‘The Harry McCormack? One-time heavy with Special Branch? I thought the powers-that-be had retired that dinosaur about two hundred years ago.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  Karl nodded. ‘The bastard’s nuttier than a squirrel’s turd. Face like a car wreck. His wife, Virginia, used to be a cop, too. Hairy Virgina, they were collectively known as.’ Karl took a brave gulp of coffee, as if to wash McCormack’s name from his mouth. ‘What theories is He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed coming out with concerning the hands?’

  ‘Wilson? The cuts on this new one are so precise he thinks there’s a strong possibility that the culprit or culprits could be in the medical profession.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have to be a brain surgeon to figure that out. A doctor?’

  ‘Possibly. Could also be a medical student, though.’

  ‘Or nurse. Some of them are as knowledgeable as the doctors – sometimes more so.’

  ‘I never thought of that. Still, hard to believe a woman would be capable of such a grisly act – especially if she were a nurse.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘Wilson and his team are working on them upstairs, which means it could take a while.’

  ‘What about the tiny, faded numbers on the hand, saddled between the index finger and thumb? Those were the first things I noted when I scrutinised the hand, before it went all prune-like. The numbers resembled a blue “88”. Amateurish. Looked like prison tats.’

  ‘I’ll check it out. Didn’t notice any numbers in my initial examination, but then, I wasn’t looking for them. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘What about the body? Has it turned up yet?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘What about Kevin Johnson’s hand?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Any tats on it?’

  ‘Covered in them. Don’t forget, Johnson did long stretches in prison. It would’ve been against the norm if he didn’t have some. The word HATE lined the fingers. An ace of spades and a shamrock – which looked more like a cabbage leaf – on the back of the hand. Some prisoners collect these things with the passion of a lepidopterist.’